One Milt Over The Line

In the wake of today's news that the Phillies have fired hitting coach Milt Thompson for failing to make Raul Ibanez young, Chase Utley healthy, and the collection of minor-league flotsam world-beaters, please enjoy this classic (in that it's old) FTT moment. From way back in 2007...

A college roommate was the kid of an ex-MLB manager, which meant that he got unused player's wife tickets. In the summer of 1988, he invited me to take in a Phillies game in late July, with the team mostly out of the pennant race. It was my first experience, ever, in very good seats.

The Phillies had (have?) a moronic fan that we'll refer to here as Mr. Hoo Hoo! Mr. Hoo Hoo! is so named because of an odd habit he has, where he shouts out some odd statistical note of encouragement to a Phillies player, then punctuates it with a high-pitched "Hoo Hoo!" that echoes throughout the mostly quiet stadium. During slow points in games, you could clearly hear him on telecasts.

(Note: the Phillies had, at this point, not made the playoffs for 5 years, and not really been in a race for that long, either. It was the era of Steve Jeltz, Jeff Stone and Rich Schu, which is to say, very much like a lot of eras in Phillies history.)

So we're settling in for the bottom of the first. Milt Thompson had gotten the start for the Phils that night, mostly out of a lack of any more interesting ideas. Hitting second against a lefthander, he was a mostly power-free outfielder hitting from the wrong side of the plate.

He also had, at that point, one home run for the year (and would finish with 2). Milt hit 47 home runs for his entire career. (Which makes him the perfect current candidate to coach Ryan Howard. Anyway, I digress.)

In short, Milt was no threat to go deep. At all.

As I soon discover, Mr. Hoo Hoo! is sitting no less than 20 feet away. Which, while annoying at the time, warms my black heart now -- the idea that the fat cats in the good seats had to suffer with this clown, game after game. He opens up.

"COME ON, MILTIE, HIT NUMBER TWO! HOO HOO!"

Turning to my friend, I said, "Yeah, maybe in his life against a left-hander."

Not loud, not drunk, not even all that derisive. It was the first inning. All was calm.

At which point Mrs. Milt Thompson (presumably), who was sitting right behind us, proceeded to loudly suck all of the air out of the stadium in a classically understated display of Spurned Woman Fury.

Mrs. Thompson also, probably, outweighed me by a good 50 pounds, and was surrounded by similarly enhanced people, all of them performing variations of the "Oh no, he didn't" face.

Milt might have been the pro athlete, but he wasn't the power hitter in the family.

Thompson hits a pop up and is retired. The Phillies lose quietly. My friend and I do much the same. Mrs. Thompson's glare gives the back of my neck a third-degree burn. I would have had a better time in the bleachers.

On the off chance that Milt reads this... by all means, say hello to the missus for me.

Assuming she's still, you know, on the streets.