#Benny Agbayani

[ukdamo]

When Benny Agbayani Became a Met

Oliver de la Paz

my ancestors rose and cheered. From their ancient graves,

pairs of arms rose to make the wave. Every burial site, a stadium and,

for every one of his at-bats Mayon Volcano spat a puff of smoke

visible for miles. Children in T-shirts with the number 50, hand-scrawled by Sharpies

would run into the streets and clang on metal pans calling all to feast

and when Benny’s cleats dug into the box, the little cloud of dust rising from his spikes

would drift across continents, into the living room of every Filipino, issuing a sneeze

which would be followed by a blessing. The diaspora, a flood of blessings,

watching the orange, blue, and white uniforms pixelated into millions of screens.

Tens of thousands of nurses held their breaths when they looked up between shifts

and saw him rest the bat on his shoulder staring down the pitcher. When Benny Agbayani

was a Met, whole families, once torn apart by distance held each other close, wrapped

together tightly in the embrace of phone cords, the web of telephone lines crisscrossing the nation.

Each long distance call the shimmering pulse of a wrist bracing for the recoil of the bat making contact.

When Benny fielded fly balls we’d all look into the sun for the speck of something—

something to ease us into the heartbeat of Americana where it was always

summer and the lawn markings formed grids visible from space.

When Benny Agbayani was a Met we thought the organ’s roar was for us and the syncopated applause

put us into a rhythm in tune to our hearts. When Benny Agbayani put his mitt to the ground

to stop a daisy cutter, millions of us put our ears to the earth to hear the rumblings

of what we hoped would be thousands of footsteps, following his path. But instead they were galloping

towards home. We’d raise the brim of our caps and nod our chins at a cool breeze

or the smell of fryer oil. And when Shea sang in one voice “B-B-B-Benny and the Mets”

we stood and put are hands to our hearts. We rocked back and forth on our heels

watching the strike zone get smaller and smaller. Watched as the sun made

our shadows grow and we waited until the roster made room for us in the show, now and in the ever after.

[putah-creek]

When Benny Agbayani Became a Met Oliver de la Paz

[this-day-in-baseball]

October 7, 2000

Benny Agbayani's 13th inning home run ends the longest LDS game ever played, 5 hours and 22 minutes. The dramatic homer by the Mets outfielder, who was voted the 36th greatest athlete from Hawaii by Sports Illustrated, gives New York a 3-2 victory and 2-1 series advantage over the Giants.

Ed. Note: I apologize for the late post today. My phone is a brick, and my computer doesn’t play nicely with tumblr.

[diarrheaofthekeyboard]

#41

9.4.2020 - 9.8.2020

At age 5, sometime in the summer of 1983, I went to my first Mets game. I know they played the Montreal Expos. I’m pretty sure George Bamburger was still the manager. Tom Seaver was on the team. I do not know if he pitched that game. But I know I saw him pitch on tv as a Met that year. 

My early childhood from that point forward was consumed with baseball (and cartoons) until about 1989 when the Mets were bad again. They just got worse until I went to college, but I still watched. I couldn’t watch Mets games in college, so I mostly forgot about baseball. I graduated in 2000 and came home to the Mets and Yankees in the Subway Series. And I was back in it. 

The Mets predictably lost, and it was the worst because the Yankees were dynastic, but something else happened. After raising me as a Mets fan, my father outed himself as a Yankee fan. 

My dad was born in Brooklyn in 1950 and raised in Sheepshead Bay, which is close to Coney Island. Story goes he asked my grandfather to go see the Dodgers and was told “next year”. That was 1957. He never got to see the Dodgers in Brooklyn. They, and the New York Giants, moved to California before the 1958 season. This is pretty fucked up. And though I never asked him while he was alive, it would make no sense for my grandfather to have claimed he didn’t know the Dodgers were leaving. It was the biggest news in Brooklyn.

For 4 years, there was only one New York team. The Yankees. They won the World Series in 1958 and 1961. They lost the World Series in 1960. The Mets first season was 1962 and promptly set the record for most games lost in a season, in the modern era. The Yankees beat the San Francisco Giants in the World Series that year. In 1963 the Yankees lost to the Los Angeles Dodgers, but who could root for the Dodgers after they left Brooklyn? That was traitorous. In ‘64 the Yankees lost the World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals. They were terrible after that. 

In 1967, Tom Seaver debuted for the New York Mets. They were still the worst team in baseball. In 1969, led by Seaver, the Mets were champions. My dad, by this time in college, became a fan. 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in tracing his sports allegiances, it’s that he’s a bandwagoner. We never watched hockey, but for some reason had 4 copies of an Islanders record from the early 80s. We never really watched football, but he did like to watch the Cowboys. Why wasn’t he a Giants fan? Or a Jets fan? It never really made sense. 

The entire reason we went to that game in 1983 was my dad got tickets from work. The owner of the company he worked for had box seats about 10 rows behind the third base dugout. We would go once or twice a year and my dad would complain about traffic. We went to Game 1 of the 1986 World Series. I still have my ticket. It was a big moment for me, having just turned all of 9 years old. It’s still a big moment for me. We sat 6 rows from the back of the stadium and couldn’t see anything. But we were there. 

I never had reason to believe my dad was anything other than a Mets fan. And then, there I am, freaking out in 2000 as Benny Agbayani hands the ball to a fan in the stands because he thought there were three outs, and my dad is outing himself further as a Yankee fan with every moment. 

I don’t remember when this took place, but I know it happened. I was so angry I was raised a Mets fan. But it went something like this: 

Why would you do this to your child? You know how bad they are. You read the paper. You never bothered to tell me the Yankees won the World Series in 1978. I could have gone through life as a carefree Yankee fan, not ever having to know the intricacies of the game, and never beating myself up in the years they weren’t competitive because they’re the fucking Yankees! They always come back. 

At that point, I couldn’t give up the Mets. For the damage being invested in their losing had done to me, and for what it would continue to do to me. For 20 years until I left New York, I probably watched 150 games a year, whether on tv or at Shea. I didn’t just double down. It became all consuming. And gut wrenching. Hey! You had a shit day at work! Let’s agonize over this garbage team and argue with the tv announcers every day. As I bounced from apartment to apartment, job to job, there would always be the constant, soothing misery of the Mets.  

The 2000 baseball season had been my introduction to Tom Seaver the announcer. Keith Hernandez too. I actually got to see him play. He was the quintessential first baseman. Now I got to listen to them regularly. Along with Ralph Kiner, Gary Thorne, and Howie Rose, they were fantastic. They talked about the game like a coach should talk about the game. Every game, regardless of how bad the team was, became a clinic in “How to Baseball”. I loved it. 

In 2006, the Mets got their own broadcasting network and consolidated the announcing team. Ralph Kiner’s health had declined over the years and he would only return on home Sunday games. Fran Healy and Tim McCarver were finally, mercifully gone. Seaver left too. He had gone into winemaking in ‘05 and wanted to pursue it full time. Taking over play-by-play was radio announcer Gary Cohen. He had been Bob Murphy’s understudy and was a familiar pick. Keith Hernandez stayed and fellow 80s Met Ron Darling was added as well. They’re still in the booth today, and they’re fantastic. 

Seaver would show up from time to time. There was never a down, dull moment with him. You’d get an adrenaline rush just listening to him. 

I’m going to say something controversial. I hated Shea Stadium. It was a nasty, ugly place. But there’s one thing about it that CitiField just can’t replace. The entire stadium was built from concrete blocks and it was very closed in. Each entrance to the seating area from the concourse was like its own little tunnel into another world. You come out of the darkness and into the light of the greenest field you’ve ever seen. I got goosebumps and would nearly be on the verge of tears, every time I walked through, from that first game in 1983, until they tore the place down at the end of the 2008 season. 

I did make sure to be there at the last game. It was terrible. The Mets needed to beat the Marlins to get into the Wild Card and it didn’t happen. Then we waited seemingly forever for the post-game ceremony to begin, absolutely fuming that we had been duped by this shit team again. Finally, things got started. Mets greats were announced. And Tom Seaver and Mike Piazza closed the centerfield gate together, formally closing the book on Shea. It was a good moment even though the season ended terribly. 

We moved to California two years ago. This was my opportunity to finally get rid of the Mets. I was determined to do it. I started watching A’s and Giants games. I even started watching Dodger games. At the start of the season, I was set to ride the A’s and Dodgers all the way to a California World Series. Then COVID hit. The season was cancelled. I lost my job. School was cancelled. Bad news increased exponentially. And when the baseball season finally started in July, my wife said she wanted to watch the Mets. She wasn’t going to give me a choice either. 

We met in 2006. She had moved to NYC the previous year and kinda bandwagoned her way into Yankee fandom. Because why not. She was really a football fan anyway. One of her previous boyfriends was apparently a huge Cubs fan. She says every time they lost he’d be upset for days. Which, historically, is a tough place to be as a Cubs fan. As we dated and got closer she saw just how many games I would watch on a yearly basis. It’s a lot. 

She got used to me pacing around, guitar in hand, yelling at the TV. She studied for the bar exam through this. One time, I forget what was going on, she’s reading flashcards and I had taken issue with something Gary Cohen said. And I hear quietly, “don’t argue with Gary!” I can still hear the inflection in her voice in my head. I turned around and started telling her why I disagreed with him and her only response was “did I say that out loud?” Gary, Keith, and Ron were hugely important to not only her tolerance of my baseball tv domination, but also her appreciation of the game. She only knew Ralph Kiner as this cute old man. And every so often, Seaver would come back and she’d see me well up with visceral feelings. 

I cried when Ralph Kiner died. Around 2014/2015 I wrote a blog titled “The Common Sense Mets Fan”. At the time, I was convinced the Sandy Alderson administration would right the team and keep the Wilpons at bay. I was wrong. Anyway, here’s what I wrote: 

On the last day of the season, as usual, Gary Cohen said goodbye to Ralph Kiner. But there was something different about it this time. There was fear in Gary’s face, as though he knew this was his last opportunity to sign off with Ralph. I had seen hints of it in years past, but never like this. Sadly, Ralph passed today, I hope peacefully.

As a Mets fan, this is like losing a grandfather or great uncle. Ralph had always been there. From his stories about Elizabeth Taylor to his willingness to argue advanced metrics and hitting style with Keith Hernandez, he was ever present in the Mets broadcast booth. I’ll never be able to hear the game again the same way. Thank you, Ralph.

At the time, I said to my wife, “the next time I cry about the Mets, it’ll be when Tom Seaver dies.” This was before their 2015 run. Before the Wilmer Flores incident. Before I was sitting on my couch with a 1 year old, watching them in a World Series, as I did my best impression of Randy Quaid from Major League. I refused to allow myself to enjoy the success of the team because I knew they would lose. It was just a matter of when. And of course, they did lose to the Kansas City Royals. But they got a lot further than I thought they would. 

When MLB decided to move forward with a truncated 2020 season, I was reluctant to watch. It’s not safe for anyone involved and seems to be all about corporate greed. But of course, like moths to a flame, we watched. And as I mentioned, my wife said, “we’re watching the Mets.” I didn’t want to. But she was right. In a year like we’ve never seen before, Gary Cohen, Ron Darling, and Keith Hernandez did something, and are doing something, nobody else is. They gave us levity and calm. Led by Gary, they are unafraid to address the news of the day while knowing the escape they provide. The BLM t-shirt moment was unparalleled. And unfortunately, they’d have another day to provide calm the next week. 

As you well know by now, George Thomas Seaver died last week. He had contracted lyme disease years ago, while working in the vineyards. For some people, lyme goes undiagnosed for years while doctors treat the symptoms without putting it all together. This seems to have been what happened to Tom. It progressed with complications and he developed Lewy Body dementia. His family announced his retirement from public life and the Mets announced they would erect a statue to him outside of CitiField. They changed the address of the stadium to 41 Seaver Way. But in true Wilpon Mets fashion, still no statue. 

Finally, last week, Tom died due to complications from COVID. I was sitting on the couch, watching some random baseball game and reading Twitter. I saw the Baseball Hall of Fame announcement on Twitter, exclaimed “oh no!”, and went upstairs to be alone for a minute. My wife was on the phone. She ran upstairs to see me sitting with my head in my hands and asked what happened. I told her and then told her how stupid I felt for letting this get to me. And she said, “yeah, but you said after Ralph died this would happen”. 

Our son came upstairs to see what he was missing. I told him. He said “who’s that?” And we had a long talk I think bored him. And it’s then it hit me what had happened. As I’ve detailed in the past 4 pages of text, Tom Seaver meant a lot to me, even though in my experience as a Mets fan, he was really just a peripheral character. I saw him on the field a couple of times. He was talked about. He was an announcer for a few years, and he’s mostly been out of the spotlight for the past 15 years. Here I was, having a visceral, uncontrollable reaction to a childhood figure I never met. How the fuck were people who actually knew him going to keep it together?

They couldn’t do it. Gary and Ron did their best. Apparently, Keith’s mom also had dementia, and he lost it. There was a lot of silence during the game. A lot of big sighs from Keith. A lot of on air hurting. It was gut wrenching. I saw an Ed Kranepool quote that said, “this was a terrible ending to a horseshit year.” And it’s only September! 

At this point, nearly a week later, it’s difficult to remember where I saw it. But here it is. The reason I’ve spent all this time spilling my guts about a guy I never met. Tom Seaver was a beacon. He wasn’t just someone who had a talent and pursued it. He was constantly trying to reinvent himself and pursue that passion, whether he was good at it or not. But even moreso, he was a positive influence on everyone around him. I’ve never heard a story about Seaver fighting with anyone. He wanted to be Rembrandt with a baseball. And he wanted to lift people up around him. 

I feel isolated and alone. There’s not much I feel like I can control. I can get out my thoughts, I can be a good husband and a good father. I can explore my music. And I can use the latter to pull myself out of the former. That’s what Tom would tell me to do. 

[oldtimefamilybaseball]

Did you think it was never going to happen? Did you think the winter would never end? Did you think you were doomed to an eternity without baseball, that the offseason would never end and baseball players would never take the field again? 

I mean, it’s possible. Just imagine: What if there was a very specific rapture-type ... thing ... and only the baseball players were taken from the world? I mean, it’s about as unlikely as a real rapture, but I suppose possible. Or what if there was a hiccup in the system and everyone overnight forgot what baseball even was ... except for one man. Again, a terrible idea, but before you tell me how dumb it is, remember that was the plot for “Yesterday” -- a movie I never saw and hope I never will. 

But anyway, even those fears are unfounded. Because baseball is back. Players are playing. Yermin Mercedes is hitting home runs, a guy named Cody Thomas is robbing home runs. It’s actually my favorite time of the year when the baseball is weird and relaxing and there are no stakes because everyone is just hanging out in the sun in Florida and Arizona. If there’s a heaven, I hope it’s like that. 

Anyway, here are a few things I wrote recently that you may want to check out: 

Can astrology explain Clayton Kershaw’s bad postseasons? I teamed up with Gemma Kaneko and Jenny Goldstick for this one that is loaded with killer images and infographics. Basically, if you’ve ever read your horoscope, you’ll want to check this one out. 

I interviewed Emily Nemens about her new novel, “The Cactus League.” If you’re on the baseball internet at all, you’ve probably heard about this book. It’s getting tons of buzz in both the lit and sports communities. And it’s worth it. Nemens is the editor of the Paris Review and is also a diehard Mariners fan. I met her for coffee one morning and talked to her about the book and her love of Ken Griffey Jr. Check it out. 

Here is more information on turf than you’ll ever want to know. 

And here’s some stories I didn’t write but are worth your time: 

Madison Bumgarner participates in rodeos under a fake name. Yes, really. This is a subscription article, but if this story doesn’t make you run out and sub now, well, I don’t know what you’re waiting for. 

Sure, I’m shilling for my company, but MLB.com did a great series with profiles about a cult hero for each team. They just wrapped up and put the entire list together in one helpful location. Long live the Benny Agbayanis of the world. 

(Art by Jenny Goldstick) 

[someoneinjersey]

This is me and my dad, George, at a Devils game in 2010. I’d gotten him really good seats for Christmas, I think we were within the first 10 rows of the ice, pretty sure it was the closest to the ice he’d ever been (at that point at least). Ten years ago. I was 23 and he was a month away from 49. Usually hockey games were a family affair, with my mom and little brother included, but this one was just him and me. And I felt really stupid being like “let’s take a picture” while we sat there, and it took three tries to get a decent one on my old sidekick, but I remember having this feeling in that moment of knowing it was important to have a picture of us together, just us, doing something fun. Like somehow I knew life was going to get horrible for us all, or that he’d die before it was his time, or something. I don’t know. I just knew if I didn’t ask to take a dumb selfie with him I’d regret it.

It hasn’t even been 48 hours since he died. I’ve been crying so much I’m nearly making myself ill. I feel like I should already be over it, already shut up about it. Like yes someone died but life goes on and nobody in my social media circles needs or wants to hear about it over and over again. But I’m so emotional and all those emotions are all mixed up and I can’t figure out which one is fueling my sobs at any given time.

Gratitude. When I saw him on Monday, three hours before he died, we were able to talk. He couldn’t actually use words but he could nod his head and shake his head in response to my questions. He could lift his eyebrows in interest. He could grimace in a ‘wtf’ way (I told him he looked like someone famous and he very much gave me a wtf face). So I was able to ask him, do you want to take your morphine? No? Why, are you just being tough? Does it taste bad? Yes? I get that, I hated taking my medicine when I was little because it tasted so bad, remember? You do? Good. I heard you got to go to Las Vegas! Yes? Wasn’t it great? Yes? You were in an earthquake while you were there? Yes? Wow holy shit, huh? That must have been kind of cool. Yes? So how are the Devils doing this year, bad? I heard they were doing pretty crappy. Thumbs down? Man, they really haven’t been good since their hey-day, when they were winning championships. Yes? Right, totally sucks. I’ve been watching youtube videos of European people reacting to US sports, and I was trying to remember, who was that guy on the Mets I liked? With the crazy name ... was it Benny Agbayani? Yes, it was? I looked it up and I thought so but I was misremembering him as a catcher and he wasn’t. But it was him right? Yes? 

This went on throughout the visit. I held his hand when I first got there, sitting on the edge of his bed, and at some point he let go to weakly rub at his face. Some time passed as I babbled on to him about what was going on in the family with all my cousins getting married and having kids, or what my friends were doing in their lives. I reached for his hand again at one point and said “Can I hold your hand some more?” and he nodded and took my hand in one of his own, and covered it with his other hand. It was a gesture that very clearly showed he loved me and he was glad I was there to see him. He was getting tired after a while, and I wasn’t sure how long to stay, what would be appropriate after not seeing him in years and with how ill and close to death he was, so I asked him, “Dad, do you want me to stay a little longer?” And he nodded yes. So I did. And by that time I’d mostly run out of things to babble about so I just ... looked at him and held his hand. His hair was white. He had a white beard, longer than I think I’d ever seen on him. He was skin and bones, and his skin was all mottled purple with bruises from what I suspect was liver failure from his metastasized cancer, and his hands were swollen and dry. I told him he still had big strong sheetrocker hands. He had an oxygen cannula in his nose, even though he was breathing through his mouth. His nose ran a little bit and a bit of drool would collect in his beard at the corner of his mouth, but I wiped him up carefully. Eventually he was having a hard time staying awake, so I told him I was going to go so he could take a nice nap, and he managed a little nod. I squeezed his hand one more time, rubbed his frail, bony arm, and kissed his forehead a few times, little smooches, and told him I loved him. He apparently fell asleep within minutes after I left the room. 

I had an hour with him where we could actually talk and he knew I was there and he was glad to see me and I tried my best to make it seem like he wasn’t about to die, like we were just catching up on old times. I hope he appreciated that, that I kept it together and wasn’t a sobbing mess all over him. I nearly broke down a few times while sitting with him, but I managed to make it out to the car before I emotionally collapsed. But we had that hour. We had conversation. I have the memory of holding his hand. I have the memory of the way his face brightened up when he saw me. I have the good times. 

Regret/Guilt. Everything that happened within our family was so fucked up. Things had been hard enough leading up to it and then it just all caved in around us. We became estranged from my dad. It was nasty. There was hurt all around, and blame all around, and realizing things in hindsight about behaviors and events and what have you that he couldn’t/wouldn’t accept or acknowledge. There was a stressful separation under the same roof. There was divorce. It was still very nasty. There were a few years of silence, then contact, when he told me he had stage 4 colon cancer. He tried to keep me updated on his treatment but there were still very hurt feelings. Words were said. More years of silence. He reached out to see what was wrong with mom when he found out she was sick, but didn’t exactly ... react in a mature way, I guess you could say. Things were quiet for a long time, and then he reached out again, this time to my mom, to reveal that he was doing badly and was, essentially, now dying. I talked to him a little via facebook messenger but it was strained. His health got worse over the holidays and I decided to just keep moving forward with our brief messages like there was nothing wrong, because I knew he was slowly approaching the end. Then it wasn’t so slowly. He could no longer eat. Then he was on home hospice. Then he stopped answering messages and posting on facebook. I checked his facebook multiple times a day for a sign of life, or an update on his behalf from my aunts (his sisters, with whom he lived). Update came, he was doing bad, they’d keep everyone posted. Next update, it was even worse, only a matter of time. Monday morning I got the text that if I wanted to say goodbye to him, that was the time to do it. So I went and saw the ghost of the man who’d been my dad. 

When they let me know three hours later that he’d passed away, the guilt and regret started. Hell, who am I kidding, it started way before that, but it became real and tangible after that moment. I should have stayed longer. I should have tried to properly hug his frail, bedridden body. I should have asked for a few minutes alone with him, where I should have said all the things that needed to be said, about how sorry I was with how I handled my end of things, and how sorry I was that I didn’t see him sooner, and how sorry I was that he was so sick and felt so terrible and was going through this, and how much I loved him always and in spite of everything, and how he was always going to be my dad and I was always going to be his daughter. I should have better committed his face to memory that afternoon even though it didn’t look like him anymore. I should have brought him something to have with him when he passed. Something to remember me by. Anything. Should have said more, done more. Should have been there through his cancer, like he was with me through mine. Should have. Should have.

Anger. I’m mad. I’m mad at myself for all the should haves. I’m mad that his family was the way that it was, and made certain things ‘normal’ to him. I’m mad at him for his temper, for not seeing what he was doing as a father and a husband as things got worse in our family. I’m mad the divorce was so bitter.  I’m mad at the estrangement, and the harsh words, and the way everything fractured, and how it honestly and truly left all four of us emotionally broken and scarred from 2012 on. 

I’m mad at the way my dad’s life ended. I’m mad, so fucking mad, at cancer. No one should die like that, withering away to nothing. Not at any age, but especially not so young. He was only 59. Cancer ate him from the inside. It reduced my dad, MY DAD, who was big and strong and fierce and 6′4 and 250lbs my entire life, to a skeleton. He should have lived a long life of being a crotchety old Devils/Mets/Trump (ew) fan, complaining about living with his sisters and their wild dogs, with his awful fashion sense of tucked in shirts and sweat pants and really high socks, with his missing front tooth he never got fixed, and that patch of white hair he got when he had his heart attack at 42 before his whole head went white with age, and his love of striper fishing and fast boats and fast cars and Fox News (again, ew), and how he’d mime playing the keyboard on his truck dashboard when a song with a synth came on that he liked, or throwing up wiggly devil horns when Ozzy or Metallica came on the radio, or cheating at his diabetes by eating Reece’s peanut butter cups like they weren’t going to make them anymore. I’m mad that I might have to face his memorial service on Sunday completely alone. 

Sadness. My dad’s dead. I’m 33 and in the Dead Dad Club. My dad, my daddy, who came home from the hospital the day I was born and blasted “Sara” by Starship so loud on his stereo system on repeat for so long he drove the apartment complex crazy. He took me to get bagels when I was a toddler when my mom worked and he watched me. He took me to the local park and took really good photos of me (I think in another life he could have been a photographer). Taught me to ride a bike. How to play soccer. How to play penny poker. How to catch crabs in the lagoon. He built a swing for me and attached it to the tree in our backyard of our first house. He cried when we moved away because I said it was going to be the thing I missed most about that house. He taught me how to drive in his big Chevy pickup truck dubbed “The Beast.” He embarrassed me a lot. He stuck up for me when I wanted to chop all my hair off at 21, and again soon after when I wanted to dye it. He wanted to be buried in a Devils jersey, not a penguin suit. He fought with the neighbors. He made friends with the other neighbors. He was the neighborhood busy body. He was a terrible cook. When mom would work nights we’d hang out at home with the stereo on. He’d put on Tom Petty because I liked him. We’d do that dumb thing where we’d stand in the driveway, and he’d throw a ball up onto our slanted roof, and I’d go after it wherever it surprisingly came down. He died laughing when we were outside one night and a lightning bolt struck nearby and I, terrified, ran in circles two or three times before I got my bearings and raced into the house. He’d throw tennis balls into the laundry room because I’d be playing Doom late at night on the computer right next to it, and it’d get me to yelp and run into the house in fear. He thought he was hilarious. He kept porn stashes which I absolutely found as a teenager, haha. He used to take me to and from the train station when I’d come home from NYU for a few days. One day we even hit a seagull while driving home, feathers splatted against the windshield and us screaming. He’d always take Rt 35 home from when we went to Point Pleasant, and he’d point out all the houses he did drywall work on. His driving made me carsick. He came with me to the second viewing of my friend Lauren who passed when I was 12, just him and me, and I remember hugging his big dad/beer belly when a girl broke down crying in front of us. I remember him squeezing my leg reassuringly under the kitchen table the night we came home from Sloan Kettering after finding out I had ovarian cancer. He spearheaded the goofy and embarrassing fundraising yard sale we had that summer. He was always good to my friends. He’d show off and do flips into the pool or the lagoon. I still remember the way it sounded when he’d stomp around the house, opening and closing cabinets loudly every morning, and in our first house, the way his bare feet sounded on the porch, and the patio. I remember he had bad morning breath and thought it was hysterical to lift his leg when he farted. His feet stunk to high heaven. He used a flight tracker to follow my very first airplane ride when I was 21 or so. He loved roller coasters and water rides, and missed their excitement after he had his heart attack. He got me flowers for my 6th grade play, my 8th grade stage crew role, my 8th grade graduation, and my high school graduation. He’d get me one rose and a candy bar every Valentine’s day. I ... I think the last day I actually saw him was one of my birthdays. He came to the house to pick up some of his things, and he brought me a birthday card and a Hershey bar. Because of how things were going financially, he’d been angry when he saw I’d spent money on tattoos. But ... he brought me a birthday treat, even with as bad as things were at that time. 

I didn’t mean for this post to be so long. If you made it through, thank you. I’m sad. I want more time with my dad. I want to remember my last hour with him as surreal as it was, but I feel like it’s already slipping away. I’m just incredibly sad. 

I love you dad. 

February 20, 1961 - March 2, 2020

[toakatdot]

#ThrowbackThursday Mets Edition: Benny Agbayani

#ThrowbackThursday Mets Edition: Benny Agbayani

So recently during one of the games, Gary Cohen brought up former Mets outfielder Benny Agbayani, I don’t remember why, but hey, I thought he would be great for this weeks edition of #ThrowbackThursday.

Originally drafted by the California Angels in the 25th round of the 1992 June Amateur Draft, Agbayani decided to bet on himself and re-enter in next years draft, in hopes of being selected…

[andsoshespins]

Wednesday’s Words

Half the time I watch anything featuring Justin Long, I feel like he is imitating Marty McFly.  I can never not hear and see the similarities between Justin Long’s cadence and mannerisms and those of Michael J. Fox.

I should eat a bagel soon.  Countless months have passed since I last indulged.  Was it summer of last...?

Once upon a time, I shared a room with a Dominican teacher who told me about a Spanish expression involving “cheese on/off your neck” that was meant to refer to having sex after a long period of time.  For some reason this came to mind this week; but I cannot, for the life of me, remember it completely or find it.  (Disclaimer: This could be entirely offensive and inappropriate, so I apologize in advance.  I am just curious.)

Related: My Google searches were still enlightening as I learned and laughed about many other potentially helpful Spanish-language slang expressions, but yielded nothing on this queso-innuendo front.  If anyone has a clue about this, please help me out. 

I need some more people to watch Living with Yourself so I can continue to dissect it since it remains with me. 

Why are people so obsessed with expensive fashion?  I cannot fathom spending hundreds, let alone thousands, of dollars on something to wear on my body.

I don’t think I want a rug in my living room.  A tile floor may be cold, but aesthetically and pragmatically, I dislike rugs.  And it’s my house.

Today’s taste of summer with temperatures reaching 80 degrees tripped me up. 

Does anyone feel like conversations, as of late, fall a bit flat?  I feel like I will be really excited at the outset, but just when things heat up or when I am waiting for the return, my partner is not as enthusiastic or remains skimming at the surface never taking the deep dive with me.  And I am left feeling a bit like a deflated balloon.

My friend randomly reminding me of the former Mets player Benny Agbayani sent me into a fit of laughter.  What a blast from the past!  

Related: Should I really become more invested in baseball?  I do look pretty cute in caps.  ::shrug::

I would literally never want to be famous.  I want to be impactful, influential, and make a difference in immediate ways.  But I would never want people to recognize me on the street.  Shit.  That must be so strange and annoying.  I get weirded out when I run into people I know but was not expecting to see.  Imagine if people I did not know knew me?  What?

My cousin video-called me specifically to tell me that a drink she bought at Dunkin Donuts tastes like my favorite ice cream flavor from our preferred place where we go on our annual vacation together.  I love my family.  

I popped in some mediocre pop punk albums this week from bands who never made it anywhere and that I have not listened to myself in almost a decade.  But, damn, sometimes it hits the right spot.  And that Off by One cover of Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” will always be solid. 

Is this week dragging painfully by for anyone else?  Or is it just me?  

[npb-en]

SHINJO KNEW IT WAS HIS TIME TO SHINE

#npb #TsuyoshiShinjo [New York Post]Tsuyoshi Shinjo, who failed to make an impact early in the Mets’ 6-5 win over the Phillies, could have called his shot yesterday. After popping up in his first trip to the plate, grounding out in the fourth with Benny Agbayani on first and walking in the ...

[clevelandsweetspotting]

New Arrival: Rico Garcia, sp, Hawaii Pacific University

New Arrival: Rico Garcia, sp, Hawaii Pacific University

v. Fresno Pac Feb 2015

v. Fresno Pac Feb 2015

v. Fresno Pac Feb 2015

Hawaii Pacific University, on Oahu, is probably most famous for it’s one Alumni that made the Majors, Benny Agbayani. Agbayani was drafted twice, in 1992 and 1993, both times by the Angels. He had a fine major league career: .806 OPS, 39 HR and 1.3 WAR over 5 seasons. Right now there is only one professional player that hails…

[metsbro-blog]

Monday Memories

Although the old house has been replaced by a parking lot, it still holds many memories to all of us - some more than others. Even though I’m still considered a “young” Mets fan, I grew up at Shea Stadium and it's those summer days and October nights I’ll never forget.

2014 marks the 50th Anniversary of Shea Stadium’s first season, so each Monday I will post something from the days of Shea.

For the first Monday of the year I'm going to take a trip down memory lane to my first vivid memory of being at Shea Stadium. 2000. NLDS. Game 3. Benny Agbayani.

Although I know I was at games before this and have memories of watching earlier games on TV, this is the first game I distinctly remember being at. My dad and I cheered from our seats down the left field line as Edgardo Alfonzo tied it up in the 8th and Agbayani sent us home happy in the 13th. Our trip was completed by my dad taking me to Bagel Oasis on the L.I.E. for the first time (my grandfather always took my dad there after games when he was younger). The perfect ending to the perfect night of baseball.

[painiac]

[newdesultorybaseball]

Random Baseball Card #1573: Benny Agbayani, outfielder, New York Mets, 2001, Topps.

[oldtimefamilybaseball]

From now on, I'm calling Thursday Nights "Agbayani Time." Mostly because I just really like saying Agbayani.

[npb-en]

Subway series sweet 16

#npb #TsuyoshiShinjo [New York Post]The rally at Shea began against Randy Choate and featured RBIs that inning from — how about this trio — Desi Relaford, Benny Agbayani and Tsuyoshi Shinjo. With the deficit trimmed to 7-6, Piazza swatted his two-run shot to left-center. Matt Franco’s ...