Building Baseball Tradition with Conch Fritters and Air Conditioning

Marlins Park
501 NW 16th Ave.
Miami, FL



I’m a baseball traditionalist.

To me, the best ballpark in America is Wrigley Field in Chicago, with its 100 year old history, manual scoreboards, ivy covered outfield walls and shirtless drunks in the sun-splashed bleachers.

Wrigley blends perfectly into the quaint urban neighborhood that surrounds it. For generations, Cubs fans across the street watched the games from their rooftops.

Newer ballparks like PNC Park in Pittsburgh and Camden Yards in Baltimore successfully incorporated traditional elements of what made old parks like Wrigley so special into modern design.

But when Marlins Park opened last year in Miami, it marked the official demise of the “retro” ballpark era.

There is not a shred of the traditional or quaint in the design of this monstrous spaceship-shaped dome accented in neon green.

So I have to own up to a bit of anti-Marlins Park prejudice before I even set out from my Springhill Suites hotel room to walk over to the new ballpark.

But I promised myself I’d try to keep an open mind about the Marlin’s 21st Century take on America’s Favorite Pastime.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I was even going to make it to the game alive.

The neighborhood surrounding my hotel was…

…umm…

…NOT quaint.

Let’s just put it that way.

According to Google Maps, Marlin’s Park was less than a mile away from my brand new sparkling Marriott property.

Cool. No parking hassles or expense. I’ll just walk it.

Well, there are some things Google Maps can’t tell you.

Like, “Yo, dude, don’t walk through that neighborhood unarmed.”

Mental note to self: Find a different route back to the hotel at midnight after the game.

It turns out I picked a good night to be in Miami.

The Marlins were playing the Los Angeles Dodgers, a team sporting one of the hottest winning streaks in the history of baseball. 42-8 over the previous 50 games.

Yasiel Puig was a big reason why.

The Dodgers were toiling at the bottom of the standings before they called up the Cuban defector. They’ve run away with the National League West since then.

Puig is the hottest hitter in baseball -- and a cult hero in the Cuban-American community which just happens to be centered in the Little Havana section of Miami, surrounding Marlin’s Park.

That explains why the first two games of the Marlins – Dodgers series attracted the largest crowds of the season to Marlin’s Park.

So you can only imagine the outrage when the Dodgers announced the starting lineup for the evening -- and Yasiel Puig wasn’t in it.

What??

Clearly, Dodgers’ Manager Don Mattingly isn’t planning to run for mayor of Miami any time soon.

If Cubans weren’t so good natured, you might see the reenactment of the LA riots in Miami on this Tuesday night.

Of course, the thousands of Cuban baseball fans filing into the ballpark weren’t the only ones disappointed.

I was pissed too!

Seeing the Cuban phenom in the flesh was going to be one of the highlights of the baseball season for me.

At least I didn’t have to pay a scalper more than ten bucks for my ticket -- who sold it to me with the added marketing pitch, “It’s in Right Field, right above Puig!”

Oh well. There’s always beer, right?

Unfortunately, Marlin’s Park doesn’t offer up much beer variety.

Miller Light, Coors Light, Corona Light and Heineken.

That’s like choosing between electrocution, hanging, firing squad and lethal injection.

Eventually I found the one token microbrew stand behind home plate with four tap handles.

One of the tap handles simply said “Florida Avenue”, which is the name of a brewery in Tampa.

That should tell you all you need to know about the state of the craft beer industry in South Florida.

There isn’t one.

Miami has to borrow a microbrew from the other side of the state.

I asked the guy manning the taps which Florida Avenue beer he was serving.

“Um. It’s kind of like a pale ale.”

That didn’t inspire much confidence.

But for ten bucks, I tried it anyway.

Much to my surprise, it was darn good, coppery colored with a strong bite of hops.

A little research on my smart phone and I concluded that this “kind of like a pale ale” is actually Florida Avenue’s version of an IPA.

It would have been nice to have that tidbit of detail printed on the generic tap handle.

Unfortunately, when I went back for seconds, I immediately caught on to the conspiracy of disinformation.

“That Florida Avenue was really good! I’ll take another,” I told the beer man as I handed him another ten spot.

As soon as he slid me my second beer I knew something was terribly wrong.

It wasn’t the same color.

I took a sip.

Pale, water flavor followed by a nasty blueberryish aftertaste.

Same tap handle. Same ten dollars. Entirely different beer.

What the hell???

A check of the smart phone again and much to my horror I discovered I just spent ten bucks on Florida Avenue Blueberry -- entirely under false pretenses.

Can I hire a lawyer and sue?

Instead I’ll just take to the blogosphere to excoriate the Miami Marlins and all of Florida for horrendously bad taste in beer.

Florida is to beer drinkers what Long John Silvers is to seafood lovers.

Hell, in other words.

I mean, what is the deal?

The Marlins have one stand in the entire ballpark selling craft beer with just four tap handles and the one guy whose only job it is to serve that beer has no idea what he’s serving -- at ten bucks a pop?

Maybe Marlins Park should just stick to selling Bud.

In fact, that’s exactly where I headed after I choked down my blueberry abomination -- the Budweiser Bow Tie bar out in Left Field which seemed popular with the cool under 40 crowd.

Because Anheiser-Busch bought up Chicago microbrewery Goose Island, the Goose Island Honkers Ale was on tap at the Bud bar.

And get this -- it was selling for a buck less in a 25% bigger cup than the microbrews.

Bargain!

Honkers Ale isn’t that exciting of a brew, but it beats the heck out of Budweiser -- and Florida Avenue Blueberry.

That’s for sure.

The view from Left Field gave me a nice panoramic view of Marlins Park -- the retractable roof, the glass wall overlooking downtown and the weird neon rainbow colored kaleidoscope wheel thingy that twirls after rare Marlins’ home runs.

How’s that for baseball tradition?

While an improvement over the dungeon-like atmosphere of the Astrodome and Tropicana Field, there is still something wrong about watching baseball indoors with the air conditioning blowing on the back of my neck for nine innings.

I’d much rather watch the game out doors on a hot summer night under the stars with a cold beer in hand.

Unfortunately, the Marlins only open their retractable roof for less than 10% of their home games.

I mean, I know it gets hot in Miami, but this is a night game for cripe’s sakes. If you can’t handle a humid 80 degree evening, why are you living in Miami anyway?

So why gouge the taxpayers for the extra $200 million for a retractable roof that hardly ever gets opened on game day?

Because grass can’t grow indoors.

So you and I just spent an extra $200 million to grow grass at Marlins’ Park?

Yep. That’s about right.

Spare no expense when the taxpayers are picking up the tab.

By the Seventh Inning Stretch I was getting a bit hungry so I walked over toward the sign that read “Taste of Miami.”

Down a hallway, completely out of view of the playing field is a high school cafeteria-like row of food booths serving up South Florida delicacies like Cuban sandwiches, roast pork, raw oysters and sushi.

Raw fish at a baseball game?

The raping of baseball tradition continues, I mumbled to myself.

The conch fritters on the other hand looked pretty good.

If there was any doubt about the effort to make fresh top notch cuisine in this gourmet corner of the ball park, it was dispelled when I ordered my fritters.

“It will be about ten minutes”, the lady said. “We’re just dicing up some fresh conch right now.”

Wow. Did they just run out to Key Largo and scoop up the conch off the beach during the 7th Inning Stretch?

Meanwhile I decided to tide myself over with a ten dollar “Nacho Dog”.

Yes, I paid ten dollars for a hot dog.

And you know what? It was worth every penny.

Just like it sounds, this was a big hot dog buried under a plate of nachos.

Colorful as the Marlin’s rainbow uniforms, the chili and cheese laid down a nice base for the spicy jalapeños and crunchy tortilla strips piled on top.

People in Miami like their food spicy. Marlins Park is the only ballpark I’ve seen that sports a jalapeño toppings bar.

By the time I polished off my nacho dog, I was ready to retrieve my conch fritters.

The friendly conch fritter girl was happy to see I had returned and warned me that they just came fresh out of the fryer.

Ten bucks again. But again, worth every penny!

Eight decent sized fritters with a dill dipping sauce and a slice of lime, this was an appetizer fit for a table of four.

Soft, warm, seasoned fried dough spiked with real chewy chunks of seafood, these fritters were better than any I’ve ever had at Florida’s famous seaside fish camps.

Definitely can’t complain about the dining options at Marlins Park.

As I was munching my fritters from my perch above Left Field in the Bud Bar, suddenly a roar arose from the crowd.

There he was in the on-deck circle -- the Cuban hero the Miami crowd came to see -- Yasiel Puig.

Tension filled the air conditioned air as he strode to the plate in a tie game in the Eighth Inning.

The crowd and I settled in for the high stakes at bat.

This was going to be good.

Marlins Park buzzed with excitement as Miami reliever Dan Jennings faced down Puig wiggling his bat in the box.

Crack!

Very first pitch.

Puig smacked the ball on a line deep into Left-Center.

It was coming right towards me!

Plunk.

The ball bounced on the top of the outfield wall right below me for the game winning home run.

How cool was that?!?

A few of the Marlins die-hards were dejected, but most of the fans were excited to be witness to a great moment and a hell of a game.

And that’s how I felt about it.

Despite the raping of baseball tradition, the hum of the industrial air conditioners and the pathetic attempt at serving craft beer, the top notch food and dramatic action on the field added up to a hell of an entertaining Tuesday night.

Tradition is great.

But it is games like this upon which the tradition of America’s favorite pastime was built.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Welcome to Busch Stadium: Home of the Good, the Bud and the Ugly

Busch Stadium
700 Clark Ave.
St. Louis, MO





I’ve always had mixed emotions about Saint Louis and its favorite pastime, the Cardinals.

As a die-hard fan of the Saint Louis Cardinals’ rival, the Cincinnati Reds, I’m supposed to hate the Red Birds.

But it’s hard to be a hater of Cardinals fans.

Those Midwesterners are just so darn friendly.

Sure they still boo Reds Second Baseman Brandon Phillips every time he comes to the plate for starting an epic brawl here at Busch Stadium three seasons ago, but I get nothing but the occasion good-natured ribbing for wearing my Reds hat into enemy territory.

Try that in Boston or Philadelphia or L.A. You might end up in a coma like Giants fan Bryan Stow who dared wear his team’s jersey to Dodger Stadium.

But here in Saint Louis opposing fans can safely pull for their favorite team free from death threats.

Of course I tire of perpetually hearing about Cardinals fans’ supposed “superior baseball knowledge”. Like they are the only fans outside of the American League East who can explain the Infield Fly Rule.

Whatever.

Good for you Cardinals fans. You know to clap when Yadier Molina grounds out to the right side of the infield and the runner moves from second to third.

What do you want? A medal hand delivered by Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig?

Like I said, mixed emotions about Saint Louis.

And Busch Stadium.

Like the name.

As a self-avowed beer connoisseur, I avoid anything produced by the Anheiser-Busch global conglomerate like I do doctor’s offices, cucumber salads and movies about gay cowboys.

But with the stadium situated just a few miles north of the famed Budweiser headquarters, you know there’s not going to be any avoiding the watered-down ubiquitous pale fizzy beverage.

At the same time, Busch Stadium is nice place.

It’s amazing what $350 million in Bud Light profits and taxpayer money can buy you these days.

While lacking the nouveau-retro charm of Camden Yards or the Ballpark at Arlington, there’s no denying the appeal of the clean roomy grandstands of this seven year old park.

Best of all is the view.

Soaring gracefully into the clear evening sky beyond the left field wall is that iconic Midwestern monument, the Saint Louis Arch, framed by the city skyline.

The only ballpark with a nicer view is in Pittsburgh.

For a Tuesday night game against the Reds I figured I wouldn’t have too much trouble scoring a discounted ticket.

When I’m on the road by myself, I try to get in the park with the cheapest ticket I can find -- and then wander the grandstands freely.

With no one to entertain but myself, I am free to explore the nooks and crannies of new amenity-laden parks like Busch.

Even a “standing room only” ticket is fine with me.

Suit757 does enough sitting on cramped 757s. I don’t mind standing and wandering for a few hours, especially if I have a beer in hand.

So I exchanged a ten dollar bill for a nosebleed 400 level ticket with some sketchy-looking scalper across the street.

I was feeling pretty proud of my negotiating skills.

“I’ll spend more on one beer than I did for this ticket,” I thought to myself as I walked through the turnstile in right field.

Unfortunately, as I soon discovered, unlike most of the newer ballparks, there aren’t many standing room spots in Busch to watch the game.

A small bar in center field. And all the way at the top of the 300 level deck.

That’s it.

All the other concessions and concourses are inside the stadium bowels -- out of view of the field.

So that means unless you are willing to pay a wandering beer guy ten bucks for a 16 ounce plastic bottle of Bud, you are going to miss some action if you go on a beer run.

As you might expect, Anheiser-Busch products are ubiquitous in Busch Stadium.

But I did manage to spot a stand selling another much less famous Saint Louis brew -- Schlafly’s.

Now, when I hear the name Schlafly, I think of that great icon of social conservatism, Phyllis Schlafly, who almost single-handedly put all those man-hating, bra-burning feminist butches in their place back in the 70s and 80s.

Of course I figured Phyllis Schlafly probably wasn’t in the beer-making business.

But it turns out (thanks to a bit of internet research) that she was married to the uncle of the owner of the brewery.

Small world here in the Midwest.

Well, Phyllis’ nephew makes pretty good beer.

The Pale Ale was a copper-colored brew with good malty flavor.

The Summer Brew was a pale lager with a slight hint of hopiness.

Neither beer is going to put hair on your chest, but they were much appreciated alternatives to the stadium’s namesake corporate conglomerate beer.

I sipped my Schlafly at the Center Field Bar next to the television cameras.

Not a bad spot to catch the first couple innings of action, especially when a fellow friendly beer-swigging Reds fan from Nashville struck up a conversation about our starting pitcher, Bronson Arroyo.

My newfound buddy had dropped sixty bucks for a prime seat behind the visiting dugout. As he headed for his much better view, I set out in search of food.

Under the right field bleachers I found what I was looking for -- bacon-wrapped hot dogs.

There is nothing better than a hot dog at the ole ball park.

Except a BACON-WRAPPED hot dog, that is.

But the condiments don’t stop at bacon.

You can pile it with pico de gallo, sauteed onions, crunchy fried onions, BBQ sauce and spicy mayonnaise, sort of like a remoulade.

Oh. Yeah.

All of the above.

I would have added beans too, but they were out of those.

Maybe just as well.

This thing was a monster to eat -- with jealous glances all around me as I made my way back to the Center Field Bar.

It was a textural kaleidoscope with savory meat, crisp bacon, sweet slippery onions, zesty tomatoes and crunchy fried onions.

It was a party in every bite. Worth every one of the 950 pennies it cost me.

The cost in pennies didn’t bother me anywhere near as much as the cost in time.

The ladies manning the bacon-wrapped hot dog stand were slow…

…as…

…molasses.

An inning and a half to get food?

Whoever is in charge of the concessions at Busch needs to explain the concept to his employees: folks don’t come to a game to stand in line –- they come to watch the game.

Even more unforgivable was the line at the nearby microbrew stand.

Talk about a lack of urgency.

It took another inning and a half to exchange $12 for a 20 ounce souvenir cup of Goose Island IPA.

The first rule of capitalism is that when you have a line of people willing to hand you exorbitant piles of cash for little in return, you want to take that cash as quickly as possible.

That concept seems to have completely escaped the beer ladies who were in no hurry whatsoever to pour beers, collect money and keep the lines moving.

Welcome to Saint Louis -- the most union-dominated city in America’s heartland.

No wonder businessmen in Missouri are running TV ads complaining about how the Show Me State is falling behind neighboring Right to Work states like Kansas, Oklahoma and Iowa, where businesses are run by business owners instead of union bosses.

Nice ballpark. Decent beer. Epic hot dog.

Lousy service.

Like I said -- mixed emotions.

By the fifth inning, I managed to sneak into a lower level seat down the first base line just in time to see Arroyo blow a one run lead on a home run to Cardinal slugger Matt Holliday.

Then the Cardinal’s bullpen shut my Reds down the final few innings.

A brisk two and a quarter hours after first pitch, my evening of baseball, beer and processed meat ended on a sour note.

Oh well.

As I contemplated the mixed emotions of the evening on my walk back to my hotel, I consoled myself with this important truth: A bad night at the ballpark beats a good night in the middle seat of a 757.

Every time.

Rating: Would Wear a Free Shirt.

Yankee Stadium – The House Ben Bernanke Built

Yankee Stadium
1 East 161st St.
Bronx, NY




Damn Yankees.

I hate the New York Yankees.

I hate the pompous attitude. The lack of shame.

I mean wouldn’t you feel just a bit sheepish if you flushed $150 million down the toilet on worthless pitchers like Jose Contreras, Jaret Wright and Kevin Brown?

But the Yankees? Not at all.

What’s $150,000,000 in this Helicopter Ben Bernanke economy when you can charge twelve bucks for a watered down Miller Lite – and your fans readily show up to stand in line night after night to pay it?

“We’re the Yankees. They’ll pay it.”

And if Contreras, Wright and Brown produce a combined ERA over 5 and start less than 100 games between them?

Just go out and spend another $80 million for Carl Pavano and Kei Igawa to replace them. And get even worse production in return.

“We’re the Yankees. We can afford it.”

Then the Yankees have the audacity to force the taxpayers of New York to spend over one and half BILLION (that’s with a “b”) dollars on a Greek columned shrine to the bubble economy.

The most expensive stadium in the history of the world.

“We’re the Yankees. We’re worth it.”

You’d think for the billion and a half the taxpayers coughed up and the $100, $500 and $1,000 tickets those same taxpayers have to pay to get in the place, the Yankees wouldn’t treat them like Osama bin Laden.

But no. I suffered abuse victim flashbacks to my TSA gropings as the Yankee Stadium security team ensured that my Quality Inn room key in my front pocket wasn’t a device to blow up Derek Jeter.

Every Yankee fan dutifully lined up for the privilege of being groped as we pushed our way into the unironically named “Great Hall.”

“We’re the Yankees. They’ll put up with it.”

I began to question my negotiating skills when I finally located my seat in the upper reaches of the top section in Left Field.

The scalper whined like Alex Rodriguez when I told him I only had twenty bucks for a ticket.

“Are you kidding me? For the Yankees? This is Yankee Stadium! You’re killing me,” he cried.

I should have known that was a bad sign. Somehow, at the end of our little street corner negotiation, he managed to accept my twenty.

My seat was so high above the New York skyline, I think I could look DOWN at the top of the Empire State Building.

“We’re the Yankees. You’ll gladly pay too much just to be graced by our magnificence. Who cares if you can’t actually see the game?”

One of the positive aspects of going to a game alone is you can feel free to just wander the stadium at your leisure.

As my previous reviews of Citi Field, home of the Mets, Petco Park, home of the Padres and Citizens Bank Park, home of the Phillies, I’ve taken advantage of the standing room sections behind home plate.

You don’t get a seat, but the stadium thoughtfully provides a nice ledge to rest your beer and brat while taking in the close up action.

Makes sense. At the prices these ballparks charge for a beer and brat, they want to encourage more consumption, not less.

Unfortunately, here at Yankee Stadium, commoners like me aren’t allowed anywhere near field level. You have to be a personal acquaintance of Mayor Bloomberg to even get down to the 100 Level.

“We’re the Yankees. Just being IN the stadium should be enough of a privilege.”

So I descended down to the second level from my assigned perch up on Mount Steinbrenner and began looking for a decent beer.

Bud Light and Miller Lite was all I could find at stand after stand.

Surely Yankees fans consume something more sophisticated than this mass-produced watered-down piss water.

Hell, even Mets fans have better taste than that. Citi Field sells Brooklyn Lager.

“We’re the Yankees. Why would we need to sell good beer?”

Finally, all the way down behind the batter’s eye in Center Field, I found a booth selling imports for twelve bucks.

Ouch.

The selection included fancy, exotic options like Yuengling, Heineken and Blue Moon (insert sarcasm here).

By order of Mayor/Third World Dictator Michael Bloomberg, the menu board even listed the calories next to the $12 price tag.

I opted for a Guinness – the least bad choice offered.

After tipping the slow-as-molasses beer girl a buck and missing one and a half innings of baseball in the process, I came to the stunning realization that I just paid nearly seventy cents per ounce for a beer that I’ll probably chug in less time than it took to order it. (Guinness is a gulping – not a sipping – beer).

“We’re the Yankees. We know you’re going to buy a beer, no matter how much we charge you.”

At this point, I needed some food.

Surely, Yankee Stadium offers some interesting options like Shake Shack burgers or Blue Smoke barbeque, like at Citi Field. Right?

“We’re the Yankees. Did you come to eat or to watch our magnificence?”

Yeah, right.

I couldn’t even find a sausage or hot dog stand that offered grilled onions.

Plain, foil-wrapped, preheated dogs for six bucks.

“We’re the Yankees. The mustard is over there at the end of that line if you need it.”

But I refused to give up my search.

When I finally made it all the way around to the other end of the stadium, I found one stand behind the home plate luxury suites selling “Bronx Bomber Dogs” with onions for eight bucks.

The dude spooned onto my dog a dabble of wet, greasy onions which immediately reduced the bun into a sticky disintegrated paste.

Since the only import beer stand was over a mile a way, I decided I should suck it up and pay eleven bucks for a 24 ounce Miller Lite.

Quickly doing the math in my head, I realized that is an even WORSE deal than my $12 Guinness!

It must be that super nifty “Souvenir cup” it comes in that explains the mark-up for the yellow colored fizzy water. Immortalized in bright blue plastic was an image of every one of the Yankees’ 27 World Series rings.

“We are the Yankees. You will gladly cough up $11 (plus obligatory tip) for a plastic cup you can keep (!) to forever stare longingly at our championship rings.”

Wow. I just paid twenty bucks for a hot dog and a beer. I better enjoy this.

Obviously I had no intention of returning to my seat in the upper atmosphere.

So I wandered over to the standing room ledge and plopped down my twenty dollar dinner just in time to catch Derek Jeter at the plate.

No sooner had I taken my first bite, than some Yankee Stadium usher-Nazi came over to me and said, “You can’t sit here, eat here or stand here. You have to leave. These spots are reserved.”

Reserved? For whom?

Sure enough, the standing room rail was emblazoned with Yankee blue signs reading, in no uncertain terms: “RESERVED”.

Never mind that on this sparsely attended Tuesday night game against the last place Blue Jays, there was not a single person in the entire stadium using the standing room ledge.

“We’re the Yankees. Sit where you are told.”

When usher-Nazi wasn’t looking, I slipped into the top row of vacant seats to try to enjoy my eight dollar hot dog.

Barely room temperature and no more than four or five bites, that was the least satisfying meal on which I’ve ever wasted eight bucks.

Not to keep you in suspense, but the Yankees and their $200 million per year payroll pulled out the victory against the last place Blue Jays.

As Yankees closer Rafael Soriano recorded the final out, I contemplated how spending an evening at a Major League Baseball game is one of the fun things you can do while traveling America on business.

Unfortunately, the Yankees try to squelch all the joy out of the experience at every opportunity.

But the Yankees don’t care.

Yankee fans will be lined up to file into their shrine to the Bernanke Bubble Economy to do it all again tomorrow.

“See you tomorrow,” said the usher as I walked out into the Bronx night.

“We’re the Yankees. You’ll be back.”

Don’t bet on it.

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.

Welcome to the All Star Version of Hell

Joey G’s Grill and Bar
315 US Highway 206
Hillsborough, NJ





I spend way too much time sitting on airplanes.

Sometimes I feel like the most important moments of life pass me by while I’m stuck in a communicationless metal tube 35,000 feet above the planet.

We can put a man on the moon, map the human genome and instantaneously broadcast videos of singing kittens to the far reaches of Planet Earth, but the airlines refuse to figure out a way for me to watch the game of the century while crammed into 43B.

Granted, a few airlines, like JetBlue, at least try.

But it seems like half the time their in flight “Live TV” is out of order or cuts off just as the potential game winning shot is soaring toward the basket.

Or some overly-estrogenated male flight attendant interrupts the broadcast to hawk some over-priced credit card.

So after being stuck way too often crammed against the fuselage while once in a life-time moments are unfolding down below, I’ve developed a new policy.

I block off certain dates on the sports calendar.

No flights.

The Super Bowl. That fabulous Thursday and Friday during the first round of the NCAA Tournament. College Football’s National Championship Game. Game Seven of the World Series.

And baseball’s All Star Game.

Yeah, I know. The Mid-Summer Classic may not be as impactful on human metaphysics and world peace as those other high profile events, but I still look forward to it. Just like when I was a young Suit757 eagerly shuffling through my baseball card collection and pulling out the All Stars as they were introduced during pre-game ceremonies.

Call it nostalgia. Call me sentimental. But for Suit757, the All Star game is a can’t miss diversion on the annual sports calendar.

So I successfully maneuvered my schedule to avoid having to spend the evening of July 10 on an airplane – a rare occurrence for Suit757.

Sure enough, I wrapped up my last meeting of the day somewhere deep in the bowels of Northern New Jersey right around 7:30pm.

Next plan of action: find a sports bar to watch the game. Right away. Before player introductions.

No time to drive to my hotel an hour and a half away in Philadelphia and change out of my suit.

Just as luck would have it, thanks to the magic of smart phones, I found the web site for a nearby place called Joey G’s Grill and Bar, which bragged about its 20 “big screen TVs” tuned to “ALL SPORTS!! ALL THE TIME!!”

Perfect.

Or so I thought.

The first sign of trouble was when I walked in, not one of the dozens of TVs was tuned to the All Star Game – the only sporting event occurring that evening in all of the world as far as I know.

Fortunately, the bartender was happy to switch the channel for me.

Just in time for player introductions.

I was hoping she would turn the bar’s sound system to the game, but as I quickly discovered, there was going to be no chance of that.

Before this review delves into the nitty-gritty of what a total disaster this place is, I will mention one positive – Victory Prima Pils on draft.

The Pennsylvania microbrew is a deliciously hoppy variation of that overly ubiquitous beer style – the Pilsner.

I mean, Miller Lite markets itself as a Pilsner. Yeah, and Suit757 is a philosopher.

Whatever.

But any loyal Miller Lite drinker would immediately sprout chest hair after one sip of Victory’s Prima Pils.

Too bad Joey G’s was charging six bucks a pint for it.

But the second sign of trouble appeared just as Justin Verlander launched his 100 mph first pitch.

The dreaded Karaoke song book.

Yep. DJ Jazzy Pete started setting up his speakers in the corner of the bar and handing out song books before the National League scored the first of their five first inning runs.

What the hell is with New Jerseyians’ obsession with Karaoke?

It seems like just yesterday I detailed my consternation of having to endure the amplified screechings of Jersey girls – the last time I was stuck in this smog-belching highway of a state between New York and Philadelphia.

Even stranger than Karaoke at a sports bar during the All Star Game, was the fact that the near empty bar began steadily filling with people as the game wore on.

And not one of them was watching the game.

By 9pm, the bar stationed a bouncer by the door to collect a cover charge.

The entire town of Hillsborough showed up to pay money to listen to drunk Jersey girls and old men off the sex offender registry butcher Bon Jovi and Journey.

I think I’d rather undergo a prostate exam by a blue-gloved TSA agent.

Most popular of all seemed to be some old bald guy in a homemade t-shirt he emblazoned with the word “SEXY” in all caps who calls himself Willie “The Manville Idol” Martin.

(I swear, I’m not making this up.)

He used his 5 minutes and 37 seconds of amplified fame to plug his Facebook page.

I spent those 5 minutes and 37 seconds contemplating my odds of being convicted by a New Jersey jury of first degree murder.

Meanwhile, I’m straining my neck to look up over the hoards of Coors Light drinking Jersey Shore cast rejects to keep an eye on the game I came to watch.

Not so easy – or pleasant – when you are being hovered over by drunks gyrating to the slurred words of “Wanted Dead or Alive.”

I’ve never NOT had so much fun with a beer in my hand.

Ever.

The food at Joey G’s did nothing to salvage my miserable evening.

My “Sloppy Joe” was a glorified club sandwich of corned beef, turkey and ham.

Room temperature cold cuts slathered in Thousand Island dressing made me yearn for the days when airlines served meals.

After my head-pounding experience listening to amplified bad pop songs being massacred by hammered Snookie followers, I yearned for the relative peace and calm of a middle seat in coach.

Sometimes being out of communication range isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Rating: Clean Grill with Shirt.