I’m madder than a kid in the porcupine section of the petting zoo over the fact that I can’t for the life of me find a free parking spot when I head over to Coney Island like I did when I used to.
Look, I’ve told you a thousand times before that the ol’Screecher’s got the shortest arms and deepest pockets than any man alive, and the one thing that really burns my britches more than anything is having to pay for a spot when I know for a fact that somewhere out there in this great city of ours there is a free parking space just waiting for my lovely wife Sharon to pull into.
Now, I don’t need to tell you that all parking should be free, because statistics prove that that is what everybody in his right mind thinks. So as far as I’m concerned, paying for parking is a sucker’s bet — and the Screecher ain’t no sucker.
So you wanna know what I do when I want to go to a Cyclones game? No? Then take a blowtorch to this newspaper because I’m going to tell you anyway.
I have Sharon jump on the small portion of my knees that can be considered my lap and zip her down to the Boardwalk atop my trusty steed Tornado.
Then I don’t have to pay for parking, and I can bring my own seat into the ball park!
And that’s just what I did last week when I was invited, as usual, to throw out the first pitch of a game between the Cyclones and some other team from some other place. I couldn’t wait to toss the ball from the grandstand like all those presidents before me, as throngs of photographers gathered around to take my picture and put it on the cover off all the newspapers.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum. Once again — just like I did last year — I got so enamoured with all the delicious food that is served at the fabulous ballpark, that I lost track of time and never got to fire off my patented screecherball (the one that screams at you while it screeches past!).
There I was, amidst the beautiful breezes coming from the Atlantic and the razzle-dazzle of the cheering crowd, and all I could think about were all the goodies hawked throughout the park, including the Nathan’s Famous Franks, the Gabila’s knishes, the cotton candy, French fries and popcorn (two great tastes that taste great together!), ice cream, ices, frozen drinks, beer, hamburgers, chicken tenders, fresh lemonade, custard, Crackerjacks, loaded fries (in case you wanted more fries), peanuts, pretzels, nachos, fried dough, and anything that could have been devoured in all of Coney’s historic amusement district.
You gotta believe, whenever the Cyclones invite me down, the team makes a killing because I can’t wait to get my fingers on all that delicious finger food. I only wish I had more fingers!
Now’s the point in the column where I bring up something else to make sure this one isn’t too much like last year’s.
I think it is about time everybody realized that Coney Island’s beaches have finer sand than Taormina, Sicily, the French Riviera, the Italian Riviera, Myrtle Beach, Florida, Malibu on the West Coast, and South Beach on Staten Island.
And I’ll even pit our Coney’s sand against Hawaii or the Lido in Venice.
It all boils down to silicone, which, under pressure, becomes diamonds. And that’s why Coney Island’s sand and the Cyclones baseball diamonds are the finest in the world.
Remember when the toughie kid use to kick sand in your face when you were reading the old comics? Well, if it was Coney Island sand, it would have tasted fine. I don’t recommend eating cucumbers with sand on them! No matter where the sand is from!
But I do once again recommend that, for an evening of fun, go to a Cyclones night game.
But not a day game. It’s too hot.
Screech at you next week.Read Carmine's screech every Sunday on BrooklynPaper.com. E-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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