April 8: Hot Dogs

• Arizona ------ 3
• Washington -- 1

If it's Easter Sunday, the end of the homestand, and if the weather is again unfortunately cold enough to have groups of vendors walking away before the game even begins, then I'm foresaking the title of Beerman for a day and selling Hot Dogs instead. No freezing fingers this day; I'm selling processed meat by-product shoved into a starchy bun.

Hot dogs appeal to everyone in a ballpark; mooky beer drinkers and families with children, couples and loners diligently filling out a scorecard. Not as much repeat business as beer -- the belly can't take more than a dog or two before suffering a belt-loosening distension, but bottle after bottle of the foamy stuff can disappear down the gullet without abdominal distress. But hot dogs are the closest thing to substantial nutrament sold by hawkers in the stands, so there are plenty of people who are willing to consume them in lieu of actual food.

Serving dogs can be a hassle, though. You're toting around a metal case, heated by sterno tucked in a bottom compartment, with containers on the left (for buns) and right (loaded with dogs), and a center tray with napkins, a couple of plastic gloves of the sort worn in by doctors in an examination room, and packets of ketchup, mustard, and relish (stolen from the condiment stand). And tongs to serve the dogs. Forget just one of these components and you're heading back up to the concourse to retrieve it. It's a lot to remember when you're in a hurry, and the hot dog man is always in a hurry. I managed to cover the whole of the sparsely-occupied upper deck, calling out, "Hot dog!" in a Gee Whiz! cadence and "Hot-diggity-dog!"

The place was evidence that plenty of people have other things to be doing on Easter Sunday. The big bunny made an appearance on the lower deck, leading Teddy Roosevelt astray during the "President's Race," and on a chase around the first baseline seats. The kids loved that. But the team lost again, which has quickly become the expectation.

This is supposed to be a blog about everything but the game on the field, but a digression must be indulged. The Nationals are bad, and have a bad record, but the bad record doesn't fully illustrate the awfulness of the team thus far. When they lose, they've done it by an average of more than a 4.5 run differential. They have gotten behind early -- multiple runs given up in the first, before the team has even stepped up to bat -- and often: they have never played with a lead, and the only lead they enjoyed was at the conclusion of their only win, which was a come-from-behind in the ninth that ended the game. And I missed it, having gone home promptly after the seventh to thaw out.

This analysis is vending-related: a bad team draws poorly, and a poor draw creates less of a market, and fewer potential customers means lower sales, less money, and one distressed Beerman. My back may be to the field, but what I don't see affects my view, as I face unhappy customers who have experienced the thirst-sapping disappointment of supporting a losing team. I might like to consider myself apart from the game but I'm really lashed to this team, for better and for worse.

I'll have to dream of sunnier days. Late in the game the sun broke through and the clouds drifted apart like melting ice floes. Half of the upper deck was delivered into warm light and it felt like the season had just begun again, born on a new day.

April 7: Colder

• Arizona ------ 7
• Washington -- 1

Spring continues to elude us. The area remains shivering in a near-freeze, keeping the crowds away and making this Saturday night game -- normally the biggest draw of the week -- feel more like a minor league game at a county field. We're not the only ones. Games have been postponed in Detroit, and Cleveland, buried in a foot of April snow, suffers the indignity of playing a home series away in Milwaukee. Those vendors have it rough. You can't earn anything at all if the stadium hosts no game.

One cold night is a novelty, but three in a row saps me and makes my hands freeze as they grip can after cold metal can. Numbness set in, and I was pawing at my money in an ineffectual fumble, unable to pull it apart with my useless fingers. The Diamondback players sported quilted, hooded parkas in warmups, and the right fielder (apparently unacclimated to cold in Phoenix) wore a white facewrap that had hecklers shouting, "Hey, look: it's the Invisible Man! Show us your face, Invisible Man!"

It was another low-performance night. For everybody. I'd confer with vendors and compare totals, and too many people were still toting around their first case during the third inning. Even the bags of edibles weren't catching any interest. Bad weather makes people hold tight to their wallets. Two variables lead a Beerman to wonder which is the cause of this series of poor gate turnouts: the painful weather or the awful home team playing in it? What's to become of this season?

"It'll be bad now," said vendor Rich, who is a 15-year vendor. "But you wait: May, June, July. Those are your months right there. People will show. Weather will be good, kids'll be out of school, interns will blow some steam off at the ballpark."

But the team is so bad -- they could lose 100 games this season! Right now, they look like they could even make a run for the '62 Mets record!

"They could lose 100, but they're not the '62 Mets," Rich assured. "They're terrible, but people come out anyway. Think about it: by May, what else is there going to be? The Wizards are out of the playoffs after the first round guaranteed; Hockey's done for the area. So what else do you have?"

Pro soccer -- D.C. United!

"Right, so nothing," said Rich. "What do you do? Go to RFK, even if the team is bad. People will go to a game, just to be in the atmosphere of the ballpark. They're outside, they're in the sun, they're having a beer at a ball game. Baseball's about the season and the experience. By August, then the Redskins are in preseason and it's gotten too hot. But they'll come out during the nice months."

April 6: Kegbus

• Arizona ------ 7
• Washington -- 1

All sorts of marketing opportunities crop up around stadium events: street vendors serving hotdogs, hawkers selling non-licensed Nationals caps, and scalpers asking, "Anyone need tickets, anyone selling tickets?" Here's one I haven't seen before around RFK: Kegbus. A full-length yellow schoolbus that picks up bar goers at Eastern Market, shuttles them to the game and then back again afterward, so they can drink throughout the night and get completely hammered without having to hassle with driving. Sponsored by Miller Lite, which I often sell in the stadium to these same people, so I felt a close association with the happy-go-lucky people behind this bit of fun.

I also felt an association because I've seen the KegBus before. In February of 2002 I found myself in an RV with some friends in Punxsutawney, PA to witness the Groundhog Day festivities. The night before the rodent's grand prediction, a worn yellow schoolbus pulled up and parked in the space next to ours. Inside this repurposed vehicle were about 10 young sybarites, girls and guys, drinking and watching pornographic videotapes on a built-in audio-video system. They took a more-the-merrier attitude and promptly invited us aboard, and for the rest of the evening we conducted our Groundhog Day preparations in the bus, and atop its roof.

The trip was a minor disaster for us; we stayed up too late, overslept, and missed the groundhog entirely. But the KegBus crew were hardy enough to pull through, and had already left for Gobbler's Knob by the time we roused. Apparently, that vigor and ironclad constitution has maintained long enough for them to have turned that original bus into a fleet, and to have transformed an extended adolescence into a full-time shuttle business.

As for the game, it was another disappointment. RFK was almost as empty as I've ever seen it. And this was a Friday night -- a weekend game. It's as if the season hasn't even started yet.

April 5: Cold

• Arizona ------ 4
• Washington -- 3

Weather in Washington is a tease. A long weekend of 70 degree days lead us to believe that spring is here, then we get suckerpunched with a cold snap.

Three days ago it was sunny and in the 80's, but last night it was if winter had returned. Cold air had moved into the area and swirled around RFK stadium, forcing the crowd to huddle under blankets and parkas, and to offer muted applause from mittened hands. The sport seemed out of season, as if everyone was watching a pickup game, with a less-than-pickup game crowd. The attendance was a record-low for the Nats in DC: 16,017 shivering people suffering through another loss.

Games like this are no good for money. I sold only two cases of beer and about the same in peanuts and Crackerjack. But I've learned to enjoy them for the change of pace; I'm not at all concerned with making every possible sale and ringing up a high total, so I can instead jaw with the people a little bit. Tonight's topic of conversation was: "Aren't you cold?" Everyone was mumbling out this muffled question to me through face wrappings. I hadn't considered weather at all, and was in my summer uniform of black shorts and light, short-sleeved jersey.

"Not at all," I'd say, and ask: "Why are you so cold?"

And I actually wasn't feeling it. They were cold because they were in place, and I wasn't because I kept moving. Blood flow mostly beats clothing for keeping one warm, even when it's below 40 degrees. Sales were what cooled me off: I'd stop running, and have to touch a couple of cold beer cans with bare fingers, which is a reminder that aluminum transmits cold much better than plastic bottles, and is another reason to rue the switch away from bottles.

"Come with me," I said. "Grab a case and join me in vending! You'll warm up in no time!" But I had no takers. They stayed in place, preferring to watch another loss by the home team and freeze their tucchuses off through the night.

April 4: Church Key

• Florida ------- 6
• Washington -- 7

I'm still trying to develop a method for serving up these beer cans. It's not too hard to open yourself one, but if you're going to be doing it several dozen times a game, times 80 games over the season, it's advisable to work on efficiency at every stage of the operation. Today I took a step toward streamlining the process by considering the issue of the can opener.

Some call it a Church Key, an old-timey phrase possibly used in reference to the device's resemblance to the keys to a church or in allustion to it ability to access the bliss contained in a bottle of beer. Whatever the derivation, a beerman has got to have one, which I knew, so I'm using one I picked up last year. Standard model, solid piece of polished metal, made in China. It serves a dual purpose: first, you hook it under the tab to save your finger the distress of the repeat action (a hundred bare-fingered tab-pops and your fingernail's going to fall off), then you hook it under the rim and lever the pointed end into the top of the can to create an air hole opposite the pour hole. This is vital for minimizing foam and speeding up the flow, otherwise you'll be standing there all day waiting for the beer to finish pouring while you watch your sales go to other vendors.


The alternate method for creating airflow holes is simpler and more direct; just use the point to puncture a hole on the side just below the rim. The airhole doesn't need to be big, just big enough. No need to nestle the hook under the rim a turn in a big lever action -- instead, you just pop the thin sidewall of aluminum and get to pouring.


After initial reservations I gave it a try, but my Church Key wasn't capable. It came with a blunt end that couldn't break up a pile of sand, and my first efforts did nothing but dent the side of the can and disturb its contents. What I needed was a sharp point to get this to work. So on my walk to the subway I stopped off at a small gas station and asked Armando the mechanic if he had a tool that could file it down. Most filling stations adhere to a pretty strict policy of keeping customers out of the garage area for liability reasons, but my man Armando was a casual sort. While barely cutting into his cell phone conversation, he walked me in, directed me to a pneumatic tool with a disk attachment, and wandered off again, leaving me to do what I could with it.

So I turned it on and touched it to the metal surface. Orange sparks sprayed out. Then I gave it a run down one side of the triangular point, then the other. Flipped it over and ran it down each side. I tested the point with my finger and almost drew blood. It looked like this:



Now I was ready to pierce some cans. Armando was still on the phone, but I tipped him a couple of bucks in thanks, which is something I do quite liberally now that part of my income comes from tips as well.

My improved church key worked like a charm, and all it took now was minimal pressure to be ready to pour. It couldn't help the big problem today, which was that a cold Wednesday afternoon kept me to three cases in sales, but it's a start.

April 2: Opening Day

• Florida ------- 9
• Washington -- 2

It was sunny and warm when I woke up, and today’s paper showed the following line for the Washington Nationals:

Washington
W 0
L 0
Pct .000
GB 1/2
L10 0-0
Str W-0
Home 0-0
Away 0-0


So far, having not played yet, the Nationals have no hits, no walks, no runs, and no errors. They have no strikes, no balls, no wild pitches. It’s all new, and all the statistical grids begin filling with figures today. Even so, they’re already a half-game behind the Mets, who won yesterday. At the same time, my line for the season stood as follows:

Beerman
Light Beer 0
Heavy Beer 0
Peanuts 0
Crackerjack 0
Tips 0

By the time the season ends, all this will change considerably. 81 home games are ahead, most of which I’ll attend. The life of the Beerman is pretty busy in-season, with weeklong stretches of a game a day, then a week off for recovery and other events to try and work in: Soccer, Racing, maybe a concert and an occasional game in Baltimore for variety and a bit of extra coin. But Baseball is The Season.

Opening Day is a big deal; most often a sellout and in this case very near to one, a highlight of spring for a Beerman. Today the brass band played the Anthem on the field, and fighter jets swooped overhead. No presidential first pitch this year -- probably from concern that there would be a repeat of the Booing Cheney received last time -- and instead a small squad of former Senators players and descendents took one toss after another. Even Mayor Adrian Fenty -- the guy who vocally opposed the new baseball stadium that is now going up on the Anacostia River, the building that’s going to anchor an entire segment of city growth -- got to throw. I’m still not sure who actually threw the official first pitch.

Then the game began, and people started buying. I was working the Upper deck down the third baseline, with a couple of cases of Miller Lite, a case of Miller Genuine Draft, and a satchel of Peanuts and Cracker Jack. I’d walk down the aisle a way, then look up to see the raised fingers of a customer up in the 500’s, then I’d take a turn and pound up the stairs to serve. Pour two at a time, take the twenty, make the change, express appreciation at the tip. Toss a bag of Crackerjack to a beaming kid a few seats over, make a big deal about what a great catch! Head higher up in the deck for another couple beers to the left, another to the right, four more a couple of rows higher. Open, pour, hand them over, make the change. Over and over again like this for seven innings.

But I don’t tend to get too tired on a day like this; seeing everyone up there reacting to the game and summoning me and my beer throughout an afternoon creates a positive feedback loop for me, and their bright happiness today makes me want to keep going and make Opening Day endless. So I go out again after the alcohol cutoff and pitch some more peanuts around for fun the big shell of RFK empties and another Opening Day is over.

My sales totals were actually pretty disappointing: 8 cases of beer, 4 1/2 loads of Peanuts and Crackerjack, with far less in tips than I expected. Much of this weak performance has to do with adjusting from the simplicity of popping open bottles to the retro technique of opening cans, which I have yet to master. And the team lost while looking ready to live out the most dire predictions with a vengeance. But the game is sort of secondary now. The memory is of an almost packed house circling a green field, RFK draped in colorful bunting, and the sun touching everything with gleaming light.

They won’t all be like this, but we’ll take them where we can. Play ball!

March 31: Exhibition Game

• Baltimore ---- 6
• Washington -- 3

The baseball season hasn't started yet, but the vending season began today. Because if there are people in the stadium, then there is beer to be sold. Even at an exhibition game.

So I -- The Beerman -- roused myself from an early spring slumber and headed to the ballpark, wedging myself onto a subway car loaded with Cherry Blossom tourists who will likely never see the city beyond the Mall, and made my sleepy way crosstown, back to RFK stadium, where something resembling a game of baseball was played. A scattering of customers showed up to watch, only partly filling the lower deck and lightly dotting the upper tier (Official Attendance: 14,940/Capacity: 45,016). Only a skeleton crew of vendors bothered to show up; everyone knew this would be a weak day money and that this game wouldn't count towards sales totals. So we showed up, listened to a few announcements from the boss, and began to work.

I grabbed a bucket, loaded it up with a couple of cases of beer and ice, slung a sack full of crackerjack and peanuts over my shoulder, and headed out into the lower deck. I started all the way at the end of the third base line, and made my way row by row around the horseshoe of the seating. I'd call out and sell one here or there, but no one seemed too interested in buying on a cool, overcast day. Occasionally I'd hit a sale of six or eight at a time, but mostly the vend was a series of lurching starts and stops, a fumble with the bucket and a dropped bag of peanuts. Never fully connecting with the people, and never quite awaking from my winter sleep. I'd look around and think, is Winter really over? Am I really here?

Stadium management has also decided, for reasons unknown by us, to switch from plastic bottles to aluminum cans this year, which creates the extra hassle of pouring into cups and toting around the empties. This is de rigeur at many stadiums, but we had it easy with bottles that could be popped open and handed over. I was just happy I'd brought a can opener, or the even more of the foam would have ended up on the ground. For shame.

But this is exhibition, and the season is as clear as the freshly scrubbed floor of the stadium. Nothing counts, the odometers have rolled back to zero for us -- it's as much a warm up for us as it is for the men on the field. Any day that you can end up with more money in your pocket than you started out with is a good one, and the time to awake is Opening Day.


Dialogue of the game:

The vendor behind me in the check-in line kept loudly announcing, “This is an Exhibition Game. This is an Exhibition Game. This is an Exhibition Game….” He repeated this eight or nine times, his mind caught in a loop.

“Yes, this is just an Exhibition Game,” I told him.

“This is an Exhibition Game,” he said again. “This is an Exhibition Game.”

“That’s right,” I said, trying to get him to skip to the next track. “Just an Exhibition Game.”

He stopped and looked at me. Then he asked, “What’s an Exhibition Game?”