R.I.P. Scooter

You have to look long and hard to find people who hate the Yankees as much as I do. I would rather go for a discount prostate exam in a trailer than go to their rathole stadium which is akin to the seventh circle of hell for me. I would rather listen to nails on a blackboard than have to suffer through conversations with their fans, especially when they start referring to themselves as die-hards. The Yankees are a thorn in my side that gets twisted repeatedly by such a multitude of reasons that it merits its own post. I hate everything about the organization and am risking a turn in hell for the evil I wish upon their persons.

This all being said, there was always one exception. I genuinely liked the Scooter. Like all good people from Long Island I grew up watching the Mets religiously, even when they were absolutely terrible. But when they weren't on and I watched the Yankees the Scooter made it fun. It was similar to watching a game with a grandfather or great uncle who would regale you with great, sentimental, quirky, sometimes silly, but always engaging stories of good old days long past. Some involved tales from the Scooter's historic playing days and teammates. My favorite was one that spanned a good two and a half innings about the time he broke his nose walking straight into a glass door he didn't see coming at an airport. He was funny without forcing, always warm and engaging and was just a pleasure to invite into your home.

Rest in peace Scooter, your old family and buddies have been waiting for you to join the game up there. I tip my Met cap to you, sincerely and respectfully.