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To: Gary Cohen and Howie Rose
From: JoJo Magno
Re: Beat the Booth Contest

I read with interest about the upcoming auditions for the two-person team to play some Mets trivia against the likes of you two. I regret to inform you that owing to a prior engagement on May 16 and the fact that my team member has been gone for the last two seasons (we lost him on Good Friday, or, in your terms, the Friday before Opening Day 2013) that I cannot come out to play.
Had I world enough and time, and my partner, we could have given you at least some entertainment.  Your audition calls for a “practiced routine.” Twenty-seven years and some theatrical experience ought to do it, no? — and a delightful evening would have been had by all.
Of course, his was the half that would have had what you might think of as baseball knowledge; that is, if you’re referring to names and games and numbers and pennants. My knowledge is just as intimately Metropolitan, but from a different angle; the Pepsi Porch, if you will, rather than the coaching box.
Because I know things like The Time Ralph Kiner called Gary Carter “Gary Cooper” and My Father-in-Law Laughed So Hard We Feared Apoplexy.
And I know what puffy cumulonimbus clouds are because as a small insomniac child, I often fell asleep listening to Murph talk in the next room, as my father dozed next to TV or radio. In my thirties, Dan and I were twin married insomniacs with the radio, hoping to fall asleep to the “Happy Recap.” I know that Mike Hargrove is the Human Rain Delay. I know that for years Manufacturer’s Hanover Bank had a strange “d” in the middle of its second name; I know what it means to “bring the kiddies, bring the wife.” And let me tell you what I know because of Keith Hernandez.
I know unlimited bits of information about Lou Brock.
I know details about Candlestick Park in the cold.
I know that the Cardinals have the best uniform, and why.
I know what “Del Monte” means; I watch for “helicopters” coming “right down Broadway” and I know that a double play is often, like a fine suit, tailor-made.
I know that God gave me two hands for a reason.
My married life in our own private booth taught me about the Interstate, the Mendoza Line, and other milestones on the batting average highway. I know which one is the Pesky Pole. I know that you really gotta make that play.
That’s too close to take, Ronnie. Go siddown.
When Mike Cubbage used to clap his hands three times after the signal, did that erase all previous signals or was that just “over”?
Did anybody save one of Lindsay Nelson’s jackets?
Did we keep the original cardboard sign that said “Kiner’s Korner”?
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These are “likewise” prohibited, because Somebody has a little trouble with “similarly.”
I do not participate in the twitterblogosphere or whatever it’s called now so in all likelihood this will never reach you and even if it did I probably would never know, even if it were all the buzz, because I’d have my nose in a Microeconomics textbook from Yale, or a copy of “Play of the Senses: Spenser’s Faerie Queene.” In fact, I’m here alone in the booth, and I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But I had to try to let you know anyway.

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