I had the day off and couldn't miss the chance to see the Rockies sweep the Yankees at home. A buddy from college came in from Vail to catch both Wednesday and Thursday games and, after a rousing game of wiffle ball on my street Wednesday night (and into early Thursday morning), I had a taste in my mouth that had little to do with the Negro Modelo we consumed. I had a baseball jones.

Ihave a system. And I'm not sharing it. One, you might try it and mess up my good time. Two, I might open myself to criminal liability. And I have neither the time nor the money to waste paying my debt to society for my lack of morals.

I snuck into the Rockies game yesterday.

Mike had a ticket and I met him on the concourse after I slipped into the park, alight on the thought I just screwed the Monfort family out of the 30 bucks they charge for nosebleed seats during these "premium games." I like to tell people that I'll spend full price on tickets when those meatpacking jerks decide to spend some actual money on developing this team in a way that doesn't hamstring General Manager Dan O'Dowd and make the Rockies a farm club for the rest of the league. But who am I kidding. Some people refuse to pay for parking, some people ATM fees. Me, I won't pay for Rockies baseball. It's a matter of principle.

And I'm a seat snob. So Mike and I get there early enough that the lower-level seats aren't filled, but late enough that we missed the seating free-for-all that is batting practice. Again, my system was of great use at this point, and I wish I could tell you about it. So, I finagle our way down into section on the third baseline and we work our way to some seats behind home plate. Right under the overhang. Perfect for a 95-degree day.

We get bumped a couple of times by legitimate ticket holders. Usually the more expensive seats to weekday day games go unused, but June 21 was an exception. A near sellout crowd came streaming in, trying their hardest to keep their ties out of their beers while furtively Blackberrying excuses to their bosses about their extended lunch hours. We're getting edged out by one of the better crowds a mid-week Rockies game has seen in years.

Good work Denver. Everybody needs a mental health day.

So, Mike and I get bumped around a few times and end up in a block of four seats about 30 rows up from the home plate side of the visitor's dugout. We're golden.

Mike, being a New York native, is a fan of the evil empire and when the Yanks jump out 2-0 on the Rocks with Hideki Matsui's two-run shot in the second, he starts getting lippy with the rest of the Bombers fans. Smug arrogance and pinstripes fill the stadium. I begin to think I'm going to puke in my mouth a little when Garret Atkins and Troy Tulowitzki each knock in solo shots to tie it up.

The pinstripes in the stands grow quiet like out-of-towners should, as they realize Roger "The Fat, Old, Prim Dona Dinosaur" Clemens will not record his 350th win in Coors Field. All is right with the world.

Looking around in the third to see where we might have to run to next if some legitimate latecomers come to claim their rightful seats, I seea businessman in a pink shirt and gold tie stop at our row. And it's Denver Mayor John Hickenlooper.

He shuffles his way past Mike and I as we make room for him and his friend and, as we're all sitting back down, Hick turns to me with a look of disgust and asks, "Do you have tickets for these seats, because we've got two more on the way?"

Rule number one of seat squatting: when someone asks you if you have tickets for a seat, it means they know you're not legit, but they don't have tickets either or they would just throw you out. I call the mayor's bluff and tell him we'll move when his friends get there.

And now I'm sitting next to the mayor. What do I say? It's my one social opportunity to strike up a conversation with the man and I've got nothing. I try baseball, but he's uninterested in my recap of Tulo and Atkins' homeruns. I've got nothing, but at least I'm not like the jerks the row directly in front of the mayor who won't leave him alone asking if he knows their friends and family who work at the city.

And then I remember. In his book, Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut, may his name be a blessing, writes fondly of a frat brother he had named Hickenlooper. He writes about a trip he took to Denver to meet his fraternity brother's son, the owner of a brewpub, and how he taught the young entrepreneur a game he and Hick the elder used to play. When one would ask the other, "Are you a member of the Turtle Club?" the other was obligated to answer loudly, "You bet your sweet ass I am."

I wait until he's not talking.

And I turn slowly and ask,

"Um

I was wondering,

are you

a member of the Turtle Club?"

"You bet your sweet ass I am," says the Denver Mayor John Hickenlooper.

And of course, instead of using that moment as a peg to continue the conversation, I smile like an idiot, pump my fist lightly to myself and turn to giggle about the coup with Mike. I am an idiot.

Three more innings and Hick can take no more interrogation from the men in front of him. He gets up for a beer and never returns. We see him escorted with a crowd of suits down to better even better seats an inning later.

An inning later a security guard and a speechwriter come to claim our seats. Apparently the mayor wasn't bluffing. Rule number one now has an elected official's caveat. I tell these two where the mayor has run off to and they decide they'd rather sit with him than Mike and I.

Our stolen seats are safe.

The Rockies win one of the best games I've ever seen live.

I sing "New York, New York" at the top of my lungs on the concourse while Mike tries to disassociate himself from "that guy."

I down three super tacos at Illegal Pete's before walking home in the heat.

Best

day

off

ever.


ps: check this out.