Cup of Coffee: April 24, 2025

Good morning! And welcome to Free Thursday!

For those unaware, I'm on vacation this week, and while I'm writing some quick news capsules and few brief missives from my trip, I've turned most of the newsletter over to subscribers who have submitted guest posts over the past couple of weeks. Today there are two great ones, so I hope you enjoy!

And That Happened

Atlanta 4, Cardinals 1
Reds 5, Marlins 2
Yankees 5, Guardians 1
Mets 4, Phillies 3
Tigers 6, Padres 0
Nationals 4, Orioles 3
Mariners 8, Red Sox 5
Cubs 7, Dodgers 6
Twins 6, White Sox 3
Astros 3, Blue Jays 1
Pirates 3, Angels 0
Giants 4, Brewers 2
Athletics 5, Rangers 2
Rays 7, Diamondbacks 5
Rockies vs. Royals – POSTPONED:

🎶Did you never call? I waited for your call
These rivers of suggestion are driving me away
The trees will bend, the cities wash away
The city on the river there is a girl without a dream
I'm sorry, I'm sorry
I'm sorry, I'm sorry
Eastern to mountain, third party call, the lines are down
The wise man built his words upon the rocks
But I'm not bound to follow suit
The trees will bend, the cities wash away
The city in the mountain, there's a boy without a dream🎶

The Daily Briefing

Quick Hits

• Blake Snell has ceased the throwing program he was on to recover from shoulder inflammation. Dodgers manager Dave Roberts said, "as he was playing catch, he just didn't feel great." Been there, man. Of course I'm 51 years old;
• The Minnesota Twins said that both Tony Oliva and Kent Hrbek are recovering from strokes. The team said Oliva had "a series of mini strokes" over the past month but is expected to make a full recovery. They said Hrbek suffered a minor stroke following knee surgery in early April and is recovering at home. Here's hoping for a full recovery for both of those franchise legends;
• Rob Manfred Just Doesn't Understand. A story by Marc Normandin at Baseball Prospectus in response to Rob Manfred telling Dodgers fans who can't afford to attend a Dodgers game to go to Angels games instead (yes, he said this!). As Marc posted on BlueSky, "there's a pattern here of MLB's commissioner not understanding what a fan of a team even is or why that sort of solution is no solution at all";
• Reborn in the USA: has cricket finally cracked the American market?
• Holy crap the Atlanta Baseball Club has added Jesse Chavez to the roster again. I think this is the eighth time they have formally acquired him. This is some Joker/Batman "you and I are destined to do this forever" shit.
• While walking to a beach outside of Frederiksted, St. Croix yesterday – more below – we passed a small ballpark under construction:

The handwritten sign on the right identifies it as "Horace Clarke Stadium," named after the former Yankees second baseman and Frederiksted native. I have no idea if that's the ballpark's actual name – I found a Change.org petition from two years ago suggesting that the ballpark be named after Clarke, so this sign could be an act of protest by someone – but it got me looking back at Clarke's career and it's always fun to Remember Some Guys.

Thoughts from a ballpark vendor, stuck at home without an opening day.

By Sam Teichman

When I wrote this, back in 2020, it was merely a cathartic exercise to pass the time during what would have been my favorite workday of the season but which got ruined by COVID. What I didn't know at that moment was that it was the beginning of the end of a huge chapter in my life. I'm now back to attending many Mets games with friends and clients - but as "just a fan" the last few years, since I retired from vending after the very next season, and now work full time in real estate here in NYC. This "vendor's epitaph" of sorts captures the mood of that moment perfectly, but the spirit of what I wrote mostly for my friends and family to read on social media five years ago still feels important today.

Hi, I’m Sam. I love baseball. It was the first sport I loved, the first one I played, the first one I attended live. Now, I’m a beer guy at ballparks. I’ve been doing it for half my life. I started when I was 20 - broke, single, a freshman in college, just trying to make a few bucks at the game instead of delivering pizzas around Queens. Somehow, I’m still at it now - 40, married, with multiple other jobs, a mortgage, an actual “grown up”. I never planned to get this particular gig, and I certainly never imagined I’d stay at it this long. I never thought I’d get this good at it, or get so accustomed to the rhythm and routine of it, or make it a large part of my income... and my life as a whole. But here we are.

Opening day is special to me, in a way I imagine few outside my profession can relate. It's part reunion, part workday, part celebration, part fandom. I’ve always said I’m a fan first, who happens to get paid to be there. I watch the game through the customer's eyes, watch their reactions, the roar of the crowd guiding me to where to look while I sell. I rarely see the pitch, but I often get to enjoy the bang-bang play as the runner slides into 2nd. I might not watch the swing, but I'm able to locate the diving catch in centerfield. It’s a unique way to view the game, which you’d only understand if you also did this specific job, and even then, for a while at least.

We show up even earlier than usual today - there are things to prep that need extra time, and you want to be out in the hallways ready to go when the gates first open. It’s hard to explain - as excited as people with tickets are, I may be even more so. I get to help make your game day experience that much better - all of us who take pride in our jobs at the venue feel that way. We're not the game, but we're part of what you're here for. Forget the money I’d make today for now - that’s honestly secondary to my point. This is about the energy, the emotions, the people.

Familiar faces find me in the hallways - some by accident, others taking a lap around the concourse to reacquaint themselves - I even get texts pre-game from regulars, to find out where I’ll be stationed. I’ve already spent the morning reconnecting with my favorite fellow staff members in the employee lunch room, asking about each other’s spouses, kids & grandkids, sharing old jokes and new smiles. I may have even taken a little time to help out my bosses behind the scenes, probably taught the new crop of staff some of the basics, and shared a few tricks of the trade - how to handle their money efficiently, how to show off the product, how to pace themselves through an overwhelmingly busy day.

Right now I’d be sharing handshakes and hugs - great big bear hugs that make you sore when you finally break them - with the oldest of friends, folks I’ve known for years both in and out of the stadium - guys I went to elementary school with, my boss at one of my other jobs, people I barely knew a few years ago but who are now dearest of friends, just from our time together at the games. The one common thing is that we’re all here for this generation-spanning experience, the special occasion that is the first day of the baseball season at your team’s home park. The vibe in the building is that we’re all Mets fans, we’re all baseball fans, we’re all in this together. Fans, players, workers - one big 40,000+ person family, for this afternoon only. Saturday, at the next game, it'll be a whole new family, and on and on throughout the season.

I miss the dull roar of the player intros, the loud explosions that Conforto and Nimmo would get, the stadium-quaking cheers for DeGrom and Alonso. I miss the giant flag for the anthem, the excitement of the moments before the first pitch. I miss making change on a $20, thanking the customer for a tip, making jokes with fans wearing a jersey of the opposing team. A large group of men, middle aged, clearly not their first time skipping out on work to do this together, buying a beer each, someone taking out a credit card, proudly proclaiming “I got the first round”, as if cost is of no worry on this magical afternoon. Folks asking where their seats are - I happily point them on their way as I serve a big group. "3 beers, bag of nuts, one water" they say. "Out of $60, here’s your change, let’s go Mets” I reply as I finish the transaction, turning swiftly to the next customer, and then the next one.

They come in waves, hundreds upon hundreds of people, happy to be here - it's not too chilly today, the sun is peeking out - they now have hot dogs and beers in hand, headed to the seats to watch the game, as All-American as it gets. My favorite ushers stop me at the top of their row, a quick chat about my dog, their recent engagement, our hopes for the season. Long time security guards are there chatting with the ball hawk crew behind 3rd base, season ticket holders share a quick smile with me as I hustle by to the next sale. I probably won't even make it to the seats much after this point - pretty soon there will be too many people stopping me in the hallways, “let me get 2, let me get 4”, I’m checking IDs and popping beers as fast as my body can move, muscle memory now, the prices ingrained in my head, carrying as much as I can, then emptying out, hustling to my stockroom for more, dropping off some money to my managers before I grab the next load, wash, rinse, repeat.

The game is going on, time blurs and stops while also flying by, I can hear the crowd noise from beyond my scrum of sales - I ask for a score, an update, a quick count of the K’s by Jake. “What? Bottom 3rd? Where did the day go?” I think to myself in between more sales. I long to chit chat a bit, to talk baseball, to ask people about where they are from as I notice town names on licenses. I want to work as fast as I can... but I also want to slow down, to savor it, to take it all in. There will be time for that in April, as things slow down in the cool evenings of the coming weeks, after the urgency of these first few games passes, and before summer truly arrives. Each opening day is the same, and yet, each one is just a bit different.

But today, it feels like summer is here already. Green grass, a packed house, parents with their kids, lifelong friends continuing traditions - a new season, a new year, with new hope. Everyone has the chance to go 162-0 before the first pitch is thrown, everyone can still dream of the World Series. Baseball is back. I don’t have 4 seasons of the year - just “baseball”, and “not baseball”. The longer the playoffs go, the longer we stave off the dreaded “not baseball”. And normally, today would mark that change. Today is supposed to be glorious, and busy, and lucrative, and fun. And yet, in reality, it is sadly none of those.

So here I sit, at home, in a permanent, uncertain “not baseball” mode until life returns to normal. And to put it bluntly - that sucks, and I’m sad. However, if we zoom out just a bit on this all for a moment - my feelings don't really matter today, and in fact baseball doesn’t matter either. Sports as a whole, right now, don’t matter. All that does matter right now is everyone getting and staying healthy, letting our doctors and nurses and scientists figure out a way to treat and save lives, to get us past this awful pandemic, to get our world back on track. Everything else can wait. And if it means no baseball for a few weeks or months - or even none at all in 2020, so be it. If you and your loved ones emerge from this thing healthy and alive, we all win. I’ll trade being sad for a bit and losing a few bucks for that, a million times over.

And baseball will be there when we’re ready. The rhythm and routine of something I love - something we all love - is a small price to pay for the overall health of everyone I wish to be sharing this day with at the ballpark. All my co-workers and bosses, my dear friends, season ticket holders, my 7 Line Army crew, the random strangers I’d meet and serve throughout the day, whoever I might play a small part in making their opening day that much better - I’m bummed to lose all that. In a world full of fear and chaos and confusion right now, the simple joys of doing my job, being in a familiar place, being productive, and hearing the crack of the bat as it barrels up on the ball for a double in the gap - those would be oh-so-nice right now. It’d give me an anchor in this sea of uncertainty, a sense of normalcy and simplicity that would be desperately welcome. But that won’t happen today, and I understand. I’m sad, but I understand. And I’m sharing this with you in the hopes that it might make you smile. Because if I can’t BE at the park, if I can’t sell beer and talk baseball and make jokes and share hugs and handshakes like I’ve been doing on the first day of the season for 20 years - then writing about it is the next best thing I can do, and it will act as a tiny respite from the sadness of not enjoying all that for real right now.

Other Stuff

Dispatch from the cruise

One of the reasons Allison and I have not really been cruise people is because Allison has celiac disease. As I mentioned in that piece I linked earlier this week, the only reason we went on our first cruise five years ago was because it was put together by a celiac awareness group that booked basically half the ship and thus we had a dedicated gluten-free dining room, ensuring food safety.

That was super comforting, even if it was limiting insofar as you could only really eat in one place with set dining times. That takes away one of the major selling points of a cruise, which is "eat whatever, whenever!" That was the first celiac cruise that group put on. They have put on two-to-three annual cruises since then and, based on what our gluten-free friends we met on that cruise have told us, they've gotten way, way better as far as food options and flexibility. Still, we haven't returned to them for a bunch of reasons.

The cruise we're on now is not a dedicated celiac-friendly cruise, but we were supremely confident in booking it all the same since it's a Virgin Voyages cruise. While technically a separate company from its Virgin corporate cousins, we have had wonderful experiences with Virgin Atlantic Airlines and Virgin Hotels when it comes to their awareness and dedication to food safety, so this was without question the way to go. And, in practice, it has been fantastic from that perspective.

All of the restaurants have a frankly insane number of gluten-free options. All of the servers are obviously well-trained when it comes to food allergies, including gluten, peanuts, shellfish, and every other one you can imagine. All of the food hall stations – they call it The Galley – feature a bunch of options as well, and the people working them are super conscientious about cross-contamination and what have you. A fantastic example of this came up yesterday morning.

I wake up early, of course, so I go up to the Galley, stake out a spot and drink coffee and write and read and whatever. The food stations open at 6AM so that's when I go and get myself something to eat. I also grab a gluten-free muffin or something for Allison for when she wakes up. Yesterday I got myself a chocolate croissant at the bakery where they also have the muffins. I ordered both my croissant and Allison's muffin at the same time. Because they've been so great about cross-contamination I didn't bother to say "separate plates" or whatever.

The woman behind the counter looked at me. "You can still eat the croissant? Are you sure about this?" she said. I explained that the muffin was for my wife. She smiled, nodded, and put the croissant on a separate plate. She then apologized and said she had to ask given the cruise's food safety protocols and said that, sometimes, they get guests who get so used to not having to worry about food safety while on the cruise that they occasionally forget and order improperly. The crew likes to, politely, verify things.

Folks: if you have any experience with dining out in the world with food allergies you know just how utterly – and wonderfully – bonkers such a thing is. Eating while traveling can be so damn anxiety-inducing for people like Allison and you cannot possibly imagine how much of a relief it is to not have to build your whole vacation around consulting food safety forums, interrogating restaurant staff, and worrying, for hours, that that meal you just had is going to completely ruin the rest of your trip.

So yeah, I'm giving a big, big unpaid shoutout to the Virgin Voyages people and the other Virgin companies as well. There is no ethical consumption under capitalism, but there is safe, and anxiety-eliminating consumption on their ships, airplanes, and hotels.

As for the rest of the day: the ship pulled into port at Frederiksted, St. Croix yesterday morning. A gigantic Royal Caribbean ship pulled in at the same time and those have like three times the number of people on them, kids included, so we decided not to go to the beach right near the port. Instead we walked about a mile up the coast to Rainbow Beach where it was way more chill. We laid out on the sand for a while, swam for a while, drank beach beers for a while, and otherwise relaxed.

Back at the ship we had a nice dinner, kicked some ass at pop music trivia – our grand prize was some insane round of rum drinks served on an octopus sculpture; don't ask – watched the sun set, and asked ourselves why we live in Ohio.

This does not suck.

A Plea From an Immigration Lawyer

By Richard Caldarone  

Hey fellow CoC subscribers. I’m an immigration lawyer. The “lawyer” part of that forces me to say that what follows are my views alone, not the views of my employer. The “immigration” part, though, explains why I’m writing with a plea that we all fight harder.

Here’s a quick, partial rundown of what’s happening in the little piece of the madness I deal with: A man wrongfully deported to torturous conditions in El Salvador. Others, accused without solid evidence of being gang members, sent to the same conditions. Violations of court orders. An illegal closure of the border based on racist “invasion” language. Students being disappeared for daring to believe that Palestinians are human. Show trials in hand-picked kangaroo courts run by executive-branch employees rather than judges. People seeking protection sent to detention camps in the jungles of Panama. Massive raids by (racist, sexist, far-right) DHS agencies to instill fear. Indiscriminate arrests. The targeting of activists. Threats against, and harassment of, lawyers. The mass stripping of protections from removal, and work authorization, without any articulated reason. Removal of all funding for representation of unaccompanied children in immigration proceedings. A “pause” on all green cards for refugees on specious “fraud” grounds. Unprecedented violations of tax privacy and fraud perpetrated via Social Security. And, of course, lots of family separations. Again, that’s just a partial accounting in one specific area.   

Things, then, are moving very fast. We have two options. We can fight, or we can choose not to fight. Neither option is appealing. One requires us to balance peering into the abyss with everyday life, to find and take comfort in small beauties amidst the evil, and to undertake strenuous and sustained emotional efforts. The other requires us to close our eyes to the evil and absolve ourselves of moral responsibility. My message is that this is not really a choice at all. We must meet the moment by fighting—and fighting harder than ever before.

I do not exempt myself from that mandate. Yes, I sue the government all day long, and yes, if you’re curious enough, you’ll see that I just switched employers to take on more responsibility. But when I ask myself whether I’m doing all that I can, the answer is no. If I ask myself whether I’m fighting in the most useful way possible, the answer is also no. Litigation is, as Craig said some weeks ago, like trying to empty a bucket of sand with tweezers. And if I ask myself why I hadn’t gotten out of my litigation comfort zone, the answer is both clear and uncomfortable: I had not found the courage to do so. Craig’s call for submissions finally pushed me to take this first teeny-tiny baby step into doing more. My promise to myself is that it will be far from the last.

The rejoinder “but what can we do?” is entirely fair. The answer will be different for everyone. If you have any inclination at all to run for office, now is the time: we desperately need people from the outside to inject a spine into the Democratic party, one office at a time (be it from within or from third-party candidacies). We also desperately need people to organize community opposition to authoritarianism across the country and to coordinate with other local, state, and national groups. We need people to go to protests. We need people to talk to members of the most vulnerable communities so they know their rights. We need people to incessantly bug their local, state, and national representatives. We need people to push their neighbors, friends, and families to join the fight. We need people to write and correct the prejudices of news sources. We need people in positions of relative security to push their employers, their schools, and other institutions. We need people simply to listen to the most vulnerable and to volunteer with organizations that provide the necessities of life. What we do doesn’t matter nearly so much as that we act.

And why? Why fight harder? After all, things are so dark already, we’re all emotionally taxed beyond what we thought possible a decade ago, and we all have plenty of other obligations that don’t go away simply because the world is on fire. Despair is tempting; so is the inclination to hide. I feel both temptations acutely. My subtle-as-a-sledgehammer answer is: Martin Niemöller. You may not know that name, but you know what he wrote. Let me update and tweak it a bit:

“First they came for the trans people, and I did nothing—because I am not trans. Then they came for the immigrants, and I did nothing—because I am a citizen. Then they came for the Muslims, and I did nothing—because I am not a Muslim. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to act for me.”

No, we’re not now in a Holocaust. But we are fast slipping toward a place where violence against more and more people, starting with disfavored groups, becomes entirely normalized. If we all do something—or one more thing—we can at least slow and shorten that slide. The imperative is clear: it’s up to all of us to act.

Have a great day everyone.