The Night Angel J.T. Snow Told Me to F*ck Off
Follow this formula to get cursed at by Major League Baseball player
I knew we were in for an eventful evening at the ballpark when my friend Brett refused to go the route the parking lot attendant was directing him with Nirvana’s “Come as You Are” playing loudly.
The elderly gentleman was waving his fake orange lightsaber to the right.
Ginger-haired Brett stared down the poor gray-haired fella and kept pointing his hands in the opposite direction.
Finally, the parking attendant relented, threw his arms up in disgust, and signaled for Brett to go ahead and turn left. I think I heard him mumble “jackass” as we drove by. Brett smiled and said, “thank you.”
It was just a game to Brett. How far could he push the limits? Why’d he have to park where Obe-Won Kenobi wanted him to?
Trivia, beer, and football
The Twins were in town at Anaheim to face the Angels. Myself and Minnesota natives Brett Wells, Jay Heisenberg, and Ron Jenkins were ready for a fun-filled night of beers and baseball during the summer of 1995.
We tailgated in the parking lot and played baseball trivia pursuit. Whoever missed the question had to take a shot of beer. Ron, the designated driver, was the referee.
Questions like “Who was the first designated hitter in 1972?” (Ron Blomberg) or “How many no-hitters to Nolan Ryan throw?” (Seven) were asked. Then we tried tossing a football around, but the security guards foiled our fun.
Doppelganger moment
As we approached the stadium, a 10-year-old boy came charging up to my friend Jay, and said, “Hey Mr. Gardenhire. We’re from Wichita and recognized you as the Twin’s AA manager. Can we have your autograph?”
Jay didn’t hesitate.
“Why, sure, young lad. Whom should I write it to?” he asked using a radio-announcer guy voice for some strange reason.
Ron, Brett, and I could hardly contain ourselves.
Nosebleed seats to front-row Joes
After finally entering the stadium, Ron peered at the inexpensive left-field, level-three seats and said, “Well, let’s make the long hike upward.
Brett had other plans.
“Oh, no way. See that big gap of open seats by the Twins’ dugout? That’s where we’re sitting.”
And with no one checking tickets at each level or even at each section, we easily plopped down in the front row.
“Beautiful seats, boys,” Jay proclaimed.
The section was about half full, but everyone around was Angel fans. They made harmless cracks like “You’re in the wrong section guys” (which was actually true).
But by the time the game had started, though, they were buying us beer, enjoying our sense of humor, and sharing nachos with us.
The f*cking foul ball
That’ll all change in the fifth inning.
With the Angels trailing 3–2, the Twins’ Paul Molitor hit a pop-up that drifted in our direction. First baseman J.T. Snow came racing over. Overly excited to catch make my first ever foul ball, I stuck my leather glove up high praying to garner the holy white orb. J.T., of course, did the same thing.
Our gloves collided and the ball bounced back onto the field.
And that’s when I had a brief conversation — sort of — with a major-league player. Well, at least got cussed out by one at least.
“Fuck you,” J.T. Snow said directly to me.
“I just. Foul ball. Trying to catch” was my iliterate response.
The war had began. We were immediately pelted with popcorn, peanut shells, ice, beer, rubbery hot dogs (I think), and we were booed mercifully and called every name in the book.
Tickets, please?
Then security showed up.
“We’d like to see your tickets?” the man asked.
“We misplaced them, Mr. Security Officer Guy,” Jay said sarcastically.
“Well, you can’t sit here. You better find them or I’ll have to kick you out of the stadium.”
On that comment, Brett lost it, and went off on a rant.
‘I want to speak to Buzz Bavasi or Gene Autry’
“Absolutely not,” he started. “This is ridiculous. The ball was in foul territory. We’re pelted with unsafe food items that could cause bodily harm. I want to see the general manager Buzz Bavasi, and if he’s not available then owner Gene Autry.
The security guard just chuckled at Brett’s tirade and then shook his head.
“Let’s go, Archie Bunker,” he said.
Up where we belong
Shockingly, we found our waded up tickets in our back pockets and made the trek to section 329 in the nearly desolate left field section.
We ordered another round of overpriced beers — why not? — and cheered on the Twins, who led 5–3 in the sixth inning.
Apparently, we were enjoying the game too much, and being too loud. And maybe too obnoxius. And a few too many obscenities.
A new duo of security guards showed up. The portly one resembled John Candy in Vacation, and the other goofball resembled Rob Schneider with a really long mustache.
“What’d we do?” asked Ron.
“You’re being too loud and using inappropriate language. This is a family environment.”
Pamela and Tommy Lee
Jay looked over his right shoulder and his left shoulder and spotted a twenty-something couple several rows up engaged in a serious make-out session.
“Who complained?” Jay asked. “Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee over there?”
A warm welcoming Wells home
After the two-car drive home of 80s music, beer farts and Jay’s loud snoring, we were pleasantly surprised to have Brett’s wife come out to the driveway to greet us. How hospitable.
“Well, well, well,” said Sarah Wells. “How was the game? Did you boys have a good time?”
“Heck ya’, The Twins won, 7–3,” Jay answered.
“And, did anything eventful happen?” Sarah asked.
We all four looked at each, trying to decide what to devulge. We didn’t have to wait long.
“You made the Fred Roggin Show,” Sarah said oozing with sarcasm. “You made the ‘Take a Hike!’ section. Congratulations! Come on in and enjoy, I taped it for you guys.”
We cracked a final beer and got ready to be embarrassed again. Sarah cued up the VCR, and Fred uttered the now famous words, “And take a look at this clowns from Minnesota, getting in the way of a foul ball that J.T. Snow could’ve caught, and deservingly getting showered with hot dogs and other items from the upset Angel fans.
“I wonder what the red-haired fella is flailing his arms and arguing with the security guards about. What a bunch of bozos. Take a hike!”
Postgame comments
Remember when I mentioned Brett liked to “push the limits.” Yeah, I think we pole vaulted way over the proverbial line. We were definitely drunken fools, who deserved J.T.’s colorful comments, our beer dousing and getting booted by security not once, but two separate times. Oh, we were definitely bozos, Fred.
But you know what? It’s funny story and a helluva memory. How often do fans get to interact — albeit cussed at— with a professional player. And, now we have a legendary story to tell our children. Well, let’s just wait to tell them until, say, their grown adults. I mean, we’d hate to be poor role models and all, right?
Hope you enjoyed reading my story.
Tagging the baseball bunch and sports crew: Scot Butwell, Scott Younkin, Deborah Camp, Alyssa-Ninja Weis, Ning Choi, Ruby Lee, Gerald Sturgill, Jameson Steward, MarkfromBoston 🐾🍻, Frank Priegue, Evon, Klara Jane Holloway, Adelina Vasile. Alicia Domínguez, Victoria Valentine, Lu Skerdoo, Sreese, Diana Meresc, Janet Meisel, Susan Wheelock, Sarah Jean, Jane Kelley.
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