What a Difference A Dave Makes

 So my oldest grandson adorably remarks, often: "That's a GOOD idea!" As Norman said last night about my notion to buy 5 tickets for some of my mates (ok -- the Scottish words are already seeping in) and me to go to the Marlins game to meet The Tartan Army: "That was a GREAT idea!"

We fetched Benji at his Kendall condo and made it to Marlins Park in about 25 minutes -- once again reminding us how much we miss Canes games at the old Orange Bowl. As I tried to pull into the city lot off NW 14th Avenue, we encountered the only jerk of the night -- an off duty Hialeah Gardens cop, rather gordo, who nastily wouldn't let me go around a cone, and instead had me back up, tying up traffic, to keep going. Luckily, another city lot was open just to the South, and I pulled in there, asking the young attendant if she knew if the Scottsmen wore anything under their kilts. Yes, I am that viejo verde... She said she didn't know, but laughed.

It was  over an hour before first pitch, and already crowded with the Army -- playing bagpipes, and chanting, to the Strokes tune, "No Scotland...No Party." Turns out -- it's true. 

We got our seats and I was the only one who was going to drink -- partly because of medical reasons for my geriatric friends, and the young ones just, I guess, for health. But put me with thousands of partying fans, drinking a lot, and I WILL partake...

I got on line with a fellow my age, full kilt, and a large feather in his cap. I thought that was just an expression. He was with a younger fellow, and I struck up a convo. They were from Glasgow. "Ah -- Glasswegians!" They were impressed I knew the proper term -- I had been there nearly 20 years ago. They were in front of me in line, but when it was our turn, I stepped ahead, telling them "You need to learn how rude we Miamians are." They said it was fine, but of course I had an ulterior motive -- I put their 2 Stellas on my tab. That was it -- friends forever.

"And what is your name, then?" "Dave." "Well, we're BOTH Daves!" And then he sang, to the tune of the Eydie Gorme/Dinah Washington, and many others song: "What a difference a DAVE makes!" My jaw dropped. I told them I was turning 65 next month, and never heard that -- I now had a new and creative way to annoy my family and friends!

Father Dave shook my hand. Son Dave pulled me in and kissed me on the cheek. He was a handsome, strapping lad -- had I had proclivities in that direction... Later I saw they were a few rows in front, and I went down and said "You DO owe me for the Stellas -- a picture."  They gladly complied.

Sitting next to Benji was a Phil Collins looking fellow, also in full gear. His name: Scott Andrew -- sort of like being Juan Garcia in Miami, or Moshe Ginsberg in Boca. Benji explained to him some of the finer points of baseball -- and Scott was loving every moment. When it was time for a refill of my Titos, I brought him a Stella, too. Another lifelong friend was made. He asked for my Marlins cap -- I handed it over. He pinned on it a beautiful Scottish flag -- metal. I now have a favorite ball cap.

Next to me was a woman with an accent, too, and so I assumed she was a Scott. She said to her husband: "They should walk this guy." I leaned over and asked how she knew baseball so well. "We live in the Grove." Ah -- but was she American? "No -- Dutch -- but I LOVE soccer and knew to NOT miss the Tartan Army."

Turned out, she was a PhD AIDS researcher at UM -- she and Barry knew many of the same folks. I asked her husband if he were Dutch. "No -- from Chicago -- but my family is from The Bronx." I told him my parents went to James Monroe High -- so did his. And his were classmates with The World's Most Interesting Man! I knew that despite that great commercial character's Ricardo Montalban accent -- was was in fact Jonathan Goodman -- from the Bronx. I told my new paisan my Dad went to school with Hank Greenberg.

Only in Miami. Historical Jewish Geography amongst a Scottish invasion.

It was bottom of the 8th, and the Marlins trailed by one. Scott Andrew scolded us. "Get up and yell! Your team is fighing! This isn't a freaking opera!" He was right, of course -- even though there are 162 regular season baseball games and last night's, despite the Marlins great June record, wasn't truly crucial.

But at that moment I GOT the Tartan Army. At a sporting event -- you drink, and laugh, and sing, and SAVOR being with yer (see that spelling?) mates. Scott Andrew properly guilted all of we American stiffs...

On the way out, after the Marlins lost, we got stuck behind hundreds of Army partiers, singing and dancing to, I think, a song about other soccer teams fearing their team. Talk about happy noise. We lost Josh and Barry in the mayhem -- but I met Norman and Benji and we drove home through old Miami -- Flagler Street -- boring Benji with tales of our law school days and graduation at the Dade County Auditorium. Wow -- 40 years gone by now.

So indeed it WAS a great idea. And I woke up to read the news that the Heat got their latest whale -- the Greek Freak. The godfather Pat Riley, now 80, has one more run in him. If I attend a Heat game, I WILL go nuts. I learned from the Scots -- to do less is an insult to fandom.

And what a difference a Dave makes...