My Odd Sports Phobia Has Become A Cautious Political One

By Tony Mangia

I’ve lived a lot of the past few years of my life under the quirky maxim that when it comes to any sort of first time meeting where you put your finances, business dealings, networking or health into the hands and/or decision of another person, it is never wise to wear your team, city or school allegiance on your head, your back or your sleeve. It’s a peculiar ritual — or de-ritual depending on how you look at it — where I check my attire before encountering any contractors, work superiors, medical technicians, repairmen and even doctors hoping not to offend them with that affiliation.

Silly maybe...  and possibly bizarre, but what if your mild-mannered dentist — who, according to my rationale, unbeknownst to you, turns into a frenzied Rangers fan in the Blue Seats from October until April — just noticed your Islanders jacket hanging in the waiting room. Sorry, twenty-six years of frustration just turned that quick filling into an excruciating root canal. Now you know his pain too. I even check the diplomas at doctor’s offices just to make sure they aren’t Georgetown or Villanova grads in case I start yapping about my St. John’s teams. We aren’t very good right now, but we are still deeply-embedded rivals. 

I am not all consumed by this anxiety, but sometimes my half-serious idiosyncrasy does trickle down to even more casual encounters. I mean who knows if that deli counter worker making your sub isn’t a Knicks fan and they notice strutting in wearing a Nets game shirt emblazoned with Kevin Durant on the back. That could mean one less meatball on that hero sandwich — or worse, they add something less tasty. A psychological one-upsmanship on their part. How about getting a flu shot at CVS right next to your “Big Blue” Giants tattoo and noticing the pharmacist is wearing a Jets jersey under her smock possibly means that pinch of a needle just turned into a punch.

Okay, fit me with a straight jacket, but are these thoughts any worse than knocking on wood, avoiding walking under a ladder or crossing your fingers? 

Call it a silly phobia or even outright paranoia (I call it a sort of street smarts), but for quite a while now I’ve always speculated that wearing my New York Yankees cap could be seen as bragging to some parties and the difference between a reasonably-priced $400 brake job and the same one for $500, if the estimate comes from a mechanic who’s a die-hard Red Sox or Mets fan.

And while having the same rooting interest with this person could roll the other way as an advantage, I think many people these days are more hurtful to their opponents than helpful to those of their own allegiance.

Hell, while I always poured an honest shot into everybody's cocktails when I bartended, if you were wearing an Eli Manning jersey, well… let’s just say that bottle stayed crooked a little longer. 

This twisted notion of other people’s inner hatred of rival teams and cities might come from my own personal malice towards disliked opponents and their fandom, but my reprisals never go much  further than a good natured ribbing and moving on with my life. Cheer and let cheer, I say.

I don’t know if there is any evidence that my odd conspiracy affliction has ever been scientifically diagnosed (rivalitis? teamophobia?), but I can’t deny that at first glance of someone wearing an opponent’s jersey my initial reaction is about how much I despise that team and associate that person with it as well. It’s not a serious and savage hatred, but a loathing most sports fans can relate to — especially when your team isn’t doing well and theirs is. You sort of groan inside.

These days group bonding has become more than just about sports and has been taken to another level and a potentially dangerous one — political affiliation.

Except for that annoying Boston pal who always says “wicked Sawx,” I find that I can still hang out and joke about sports with friends who cheer for teams which I openly hope break records for mediocrity. I can’t say the same about political parties. And since I am a Trump supporter, in some circles during these times, I might as well have leprosy.

The division between the two political parties (Lefties and Trump really) has divided this country like we haven’t seen since the ‘60s… the 1860s. It’s Yankees/Red Sox, Jets/Patriots, Giants/Cowboys and Rangers/Islanders rolled into one.

Sure I’ve been razzed in just about any city, from every team when I wear anything Yankees, but never been physically threatened of harassed. The Bronx Bombers just might be the Donald Trump of sports — you either love them or hate them. And just like there are idiot Yankees fans, there are plenty of dopes on the Right, but the fervor and vitriol I see from the Left makes me almost want to hug Mookie Betts.

I’m not going to pretend that the Right doesn't have its share of dirt bags, but the the nastiness and calculated underhandedness of the Left is what I want to address from my position as a Conservative.

Many of my so-called friends stopped returning my calls — if only for the offense of having a choice and voting for Trump. Previous BFFs now consider me an FU. It seems hysterical Liberals have to throw the F-word around a lot to get attention. One day having drinks together and now, within those same assemblages, I am about as welcome as AOC ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. I still don’t remember this sort of separation or exile during the Obama years. It was a rare time when Obama and politics came up at all in the company of people and I don’t remember any instances of assault or retribution against anyone wearing an Obama “Hope and Change” t-shirt  during his eight years as president if it did. And I surely never dumped a friend for voting for Obama.

Never mind the main-stream news media, you can’t even read a single Sports Illustrated article these days without the sportswriter somehow finding a way to slip in a subliminal or outright anti-Trump smack down. What really concerns me is how this misguided aggression by the left is affecting every day life of regular US citizens. This unbridled wrath from the Left leads me back to my original hang-up and how it now affects showing your political leanings in public.

It’s not so far fetched to think wearing anything “Trump” or even anything red could lead to an impromptu confrontation made even more dangerous because of today’s political climate at any time and in any locale. It’s in the news all the time. I’ve now begun to take my assumptions in a more serious light. Affiliating yourself with anything Trump puts a target on your back and has become dangerous in a public or private venue. 

Forget about Liberal lightweights who turn into anonymous mean girls on Twitter, I’m talking about how easily some crackpot Leftists get triggered by a word or go ballistic on MAGA hats in public. Normal pacifists, who never had a street fight in their lives, turn into wild-eyed lunatics at the mention of Trump. I’ve witnessed this phenomenon in person. They become the drunken Eagles fans of politics. Over the past couple of years, we’ve seen Lefties gang up on politicians inside restaurants and physically intimidate Trump supporters leaving some of his rallies. Presumed Trump supporters are also at risk. Fast food employees have not only refused service to law enforcement officers, but who knows how far a deranged Never Trumper will take it considering what some of these cowardly burger-slingers could add to the take-out before they say, “Here’s your order, sir” with a sinister grin.

Despite how much the Right likes to think that these Liberal kooks only come out of their mommy’s basement to wreak havoc in public every so often, the fact is they are in our midst, on our streets, in our businesses and workplaces everyday.

So why wouldn’t I question how far some lunatics will take it? 

Is it possible some people have flunked an interview, lost a job, were refused a bank loan or got left waiting on a hospital gurney a little longer just because the attendant doesn’t like President Trump and the person under their watch had the audacity to express a different political view with a hat, pin or flag within their sanctum walls? 

Who knows what is considered offensive and could set a Leftie off these days? At the drop of a sneaker, the Betsy Ross flag was made racist by Colin Kaepernick and his plantation owner Nike. The international hand sign for “OK” now mean white power when held at a certain angle and who knows what new words or symbols Liberals will decide is a conservative “dog whistle” when they wake up and hashtag it. You'd better watch your P’s and Q’s. Oops, isn’t Q some sort of radical right-wing conspiracy group?

I’m not an activist and a torn Clash t-shirt was probably the most political thing I ever wore in my life ... back in the 80s. I don’t wear a Trump shirt or hat out of choice, but don’t like the fact that it can provoke a scuffle which could escalate into a full out brawl or worse — a viral tweet — if I did. I don’t need the hassle of some loudmouth pipsqueak who I could probably slap down in a second getting in my face. Who needs the aggravation? Nowadays, I continually find myself muting Fox News when I call my credit card or cable company in fear a bitter representative would hear it in the background and put me on an even longer hold or do something computery in order to make my life a technological hell. When I see a MAGA 2020 sign on somebody’s lawn these days, I instinctively take a quick glance around to see if some cowardly dirt bag is sneaking up to stomp it, then wonder how long it will be before they do. 

The possibility of anti-Trump sabotage is not so far-fetched. Thank about it. If these so-called progressive miscreants — so bent out of shape about refusing to accept Trump’s victory in 2016, — are frenzied enough to spit on an unsuspecting Trump supporter exiting a rally or harass an elderly couple going to a conservative meeting in public, what’s stopping a rotten few from stealthily defiling a meal or sneakily creating havoc in the guise of a company representative just because you don a Trump 2020 campaign shirt?

You see it all the time on social media where anonymous trolls, who never stepped into any sort of fight ring in their lives suddenly grow bold behind the keyboard of a computer, then spinelessly defame or dox people who have opposing political views. The radical Left seems to find joy in disrupting other people's lives more out of spite than principle.

They have taken their angry attacks and disruptions out of the political arenas — rallies, forums and town hall meetings — and taken it to public domain. Senator Mitch McConnell’s wife getting harassed at a restaurant or Vice-president Pence getting booed in the audience of a Broadway show. Just look at the outrage after Liberal darling Ellen DeGeneres had the gall to sit next to President George Bush in a private suite at an NFL game. Her own people cannibalized her.

But they are public figures and it’s frightening to think that someone could get beat up in a California bathroom just for wearing a MAGA hat (in Russian yet) like what recently happened to a man in a Hermosa Beach restaurant or a conservative  journalist being attacked by Antifa radicals in Portland before actually being portrayed as the criminal by left-leaning media. Even in good old tolerant and inclusive New York City there have been more a few cases of regular citizens going about their own business being publicly attacked for the triggering offense of wearing a MAGA hat or, like at a private party in Tennessee, being punched for just wearing a red one.

Just proving there are some serious cases of TDS out there and that the incidents aren't just isolated.

Take for instance a few disturbing and violent anti-Trump attacks which happened on three corners of the country in recent weeks.

In the first case in point, a video shows a peaceful group named "Students For Trump" at Arizona State University being confronted on campus by a wild-eyed man who yells obscenities and screams "slash their throats" in front of the table they were seated at before the creep slithered away.

Then, in New Hampshire, police arrested another joyless Never-Trumper for assaulting three people outside a polling station, but not before the 34-year-old bully slapped a 15-year-old boy across the face outside of a tent occupied by several Trump supporters.

Trump-hating man arrested in New Hampshire.

Last, but not least, another unbalanced Trump denier, according to police in Jacksonville, Florida, took his hatred to a higher level after he purposely rammed his van into a tent of pro-Trump volunteers who were registering voters in a Walmart parking lot. Luckily, no one was injured in the sinister act which could have spilled much blood.

After he was arrested, 27-year-old Gregory Timm tried to validate his four-wheeled assault by saying, "Someone had to do it." Timm is free on bail.

We’ve heard all of the perceived reasons the Left has so much hatred towards Trump. They have labeled him as racist, anti-LGBTQ and thuggish — using only the media’s slanted fake news stories and Twitter troll hashtags as evidence — as well as bombastic, childish and narcissistic (The last three of which I agree) and then tag anyone who supports this president in the same perceived way. I’ve noticed the recent violent tone in many of my old friends’ social media posts regarding Trump. One time acquaintances who I know never have, or couldn’t have, punched their way out of Elizabeth Warren’s paper teepee, now talk like the original Teflon Don, John Gotti, setting up a Mafia hit.

It isn’t hard to see where the disgruntled Left is getting its cowardly cues. Look no further than the sneaky Democrats in Congress and their partisan, closed door impeachment inquiry inquisitions… I mean “sessions” in the basement of the House.  Or the schools indoctrinating children by changing or erasing history to fit a Liberal agenda.

And then check out your institutes of higher learning. Wasn't it some anarchist college professor at NYU who organized his brainwashed lemmings into storming Grand Central Station with their confrontational anti-cop stance last month?

Call it precaution or paranoia if you’d like, but it’s not like I’m over-exaggerating the possibility of more troublesome scenarios. I grew up in and around the grittier streets New York City past and learned simple things to avoid confrontation early on — like never flash a wad of cash in public or make eye contact with that brooding loner on the subway. I didn’t walk down a darkened alley in a rough neighborhood just looking for trouble. I still follow those same rules now — even on safer NYC streets. The real threat nowadays to me isn’t homeless psychopaths or getting jumped, it’s getting mugged by Liberal mobs with iPhone cameras — the same annoying twerps who never threw down one-on-one in their entire lives now gang up on someone for having a different opinion. 

And just like I don’t go around robbing people, it doesn't mean I don't know how a hold up is done. Self-preservation is usually all about seeing a situation before it plays out. 

Nobody ever wants to say why didn’t I see that coming? 

Just ask the Democrats about 2016. Look what they've turned into.

Three-Wheeling Around Manhattan As A Pedicab Driver

By

Tony Mangia  

(Reprinted from 2005)

You see them hauling people all over Manhattan these days, but unlike yellow taxis and horse-drawn carriages, these quiet rolling forms of transit are people powered. I’m talking about pedicabs. Yeah, those ubiquitous tricycles with a two-seat bench for a rear-end. Make no mistake these trikes (Some costing upwards of $5000) are here to stay and the fast growing industry may soon hog the lanes of every traffic jam and backgrounds of city movie scenes everywhere.

I always wanted to find out who drove these contraptions and discover if it was as feasible a way to earn money as people were saying. So after a chance spotting of an old barroom buddy Rodney — whom I knew as Rock — being chaperoned down 46th Street on the back of one, I gave him a call. I remembered a conversation a couple of years earlier, while knocking down beers at Rudy’s Bar, he mentioned he was going to invest in a few of these newfangled pedicabs. Idle bar talk I thought, until someone later told me Rock and a partner owned seven of the buggies, which they run out of an old horse stable on West 52nd Street.

Over the phone, Rock gives me the okay to go out one night in one of the electric-assist pedicabs for a fifty dollar leasing fee. So I met up with him on a warm October afternoon, only to find out one of his brand new electric-assist pedicabs was stolen the night before and I’d have to wait until later when one of his drivers brought back another cab and after he took care of filing a police report. While I cooled my heels outside the stable, I convinced myself that I might be good at this sort of work. I’m in fairly good shape, mountain bike regularly in the summer and those two years of driving a yellow cab during my college days had to give me an edge over other pedicabbers.

Man, was I in for a shock.

Rock finally returned and we entered the three-story former equine storage space. Even years after it had its last hooves inside, the building still had a hay, straw and horse bun stench. In addition to that fragrance, three levels of horse urine had drained into the basement where we were standing and, I think, still dampened the floor. Outside, Rock gave me a crash course — and I literally mean crash — on steering, but — thankfully — far enough away from the fetid odor.

Like giant training wheels, the two tires in back make it awkward at first, but after a little wrangling I seemed to get used to the extended turning arcs. He reminds me that the rear is over three-feet wider than the front and, believe me, it’s easy to forget when you are used to riding a regular two-wheeler your whole life. After nearly bumping into a few parked cars on a test drive in the street, Rock tells me not to go “all gangsta” and try and squeeze through traffic or race around corners. 

“I want my pedicab back in one piece,” he said with a serious face.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he added. “The electric-assist motor doesn’t work on this one.”

I shrugged.

“Alright,” he said — sort of rolling his eyes.

“How much do I charge?” I asked.

“Whatever you want, but never under twenty dollars,” he stressed. “The other drivers won’t like it if you undercut their price.”

Well, that was my whole lesson. I was now a qualified New York City pedicab operator. That’s one of the perks of being a pedicab driver — no regulations, and basically no rules. They don’t even have to be insured, although Rock’s fleet is. Other benefits include not having to pay taxi commissions or get hassled by any animal rights groups. You are your own boss. It’s basically street anarchy!

It is a gorgeous night. The sunset had left a cloudy fire over the Hudson River. I’m wearing a tank-top in the middle of October. I take a deep breath and exhale it into a warm autumn breeze blowing down Eleventh Avenue. I have no idea what I’m doing or where to even go look for customers. I don’t get very far when two young girls sharing a bicycle ram into me at 53rd and Eleventh. I barely went one block and already had an accident. I look around to see if Rock is still watching me because I’m so close to the stable I can still smell it. The girls laugh at my clumsiness, ride off, and I’m in the clear.

I hearken back to my taxi driving days while studying at St. John’s University and figure not too much could have changed in those twenty years, so I head down 57th Street towards Fifth Avenue looking for a pick-up. I peddle along and keep assuring myself that this isn’t difficult. That hill on Eleventh was pretty easy. Just pace yourself. This is going to be a piece of cake. After a few close calls with taxis and a couple of choice words from commuters (They apparently don't like being stuck behind me), I reach my destination —  the Plaza Hotel.

Oops, I forget it’s closed for renovations and there aren’t to many people hanging around so I head to Rockefeller Center where it’s bound to be filled with tourists or at least some on-the-town Jersey girls. It’s quiet, just bunches of harried workers in too much of a rush for a leisurely pedicab ride. Maybe the Yankees playoff game has something to do with it? I get rousted out of the promenade by security and wait by the NBC Studios entrance where I run into some real-life pedicab drivers. Ronaldo, an ex-soccer coach from Brazil, tells me he’s been doing this for a few months while he’s in between jobs and wants to write a book about his pedicab experiences. But when I ask him for a good pedicab story, he has none. I shrug and figure he’s saving all his great exploits for the book and doesn’t want anyone to steal them. I talk with another driver, Mahmet from Turkey. He’s been driving a pedi about six months now and — surprisingly — likes to peddle around in the rain. 

“You get more fares because people are desperate when they can’t get a yellow cab,” he explains.

Well, it is a business.

I’ve been cruising around for over two hours by now — and without a single fare during rush hour. How do these guys make a living? It costs fifty bucks a day to lease the pedicab and most of the drivers go out four of five times a week, so somebody must be hiring these things!

I aimlessly cruise the streets and end up back on the West Side where a man and two large boys wearing red baseball caps (Real-life Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, I giggled to myself) approach me for a ride. I am so excited that I blurt out “Ten dollars!” when he asks me how much for a ride from 43rd and Eighth Avenue to Rockefeller Center and back again. My first fare and I’ve already broken Rule No. 1. Rock’s voice keeps echoing in my head, “Never charge less than twenty dollars!” A fare’s a fare I reason and I take off with my new charges.

I head up Eighth Avenue and encounter a slight, and I mean slight, incline. Any plans for small talk with my passengers like I did driving a yellow cab fly right out into the suddenly hot night. Already I can feel my legs tightening and my breath getting shorter. 

What have I gotten myself into, I scream to myself. 

I’ve only gone one block with my first passengers and I’m having a coronary. 

Sweat is pouring down my face. I start to panic and look back at my passengers through the rear view mirror. The two boys must sense I'm fading. They both have sadistic smirks on their chubby faces and the father has this god awful look of disdain on his face. I think about quitting and refunding their money. I’m suddenly parched. I need hydration. How embarrassing!

Where’s that giant bottle of water I stashed? Oh great, it rolled behind the 500 pounds of passengers in the back seat. How’s it gonna look if I pull over after only three blocks and pounce on that bottle of Poland Spring with one hand, clutching my chest with the other?

The man looks at me funny and I go to ask him to hand me the water bottle. Nothing comes out of my mouth — only some grotesque dry hacking noise from my throat — while I keep peddling. He looks at me like I'm possessed, then picks up the bottle which I quickly snatch from his hand. We make it to Rockefeller Center thirty minutes later.

“There it is,” I gasp, pointing upward at the ring of international flags circling the closed ice rink while almost collapsing out of my seat.

They barely get a glimpse of old Prometheus before I start peddling back to Times Square. The ride back was a little better. I think my body’s initial shock to the physicality of hauling a quarter ton of people had worn off. I began purposely riding in traffic — a good reason to slow down and catch my breath. It still felt like my chest was about to explode. And talk about cardio. I made a mental note to never get into a street fight with an experienced pedicab driver — they’ll always outlast you.

I slowly peddled around bustling Times Square — mostly to keep my legs from cramping — thinking what life on a functioning electric assist pedicab would be like. While I wasn’t too anxious to get my second fare quite yet, I had to acknowledge that I had only made ten dollars after three hours on the job. Then, when I got my second wind, lo and behold, outside the Broadway show, “Beauty and the Beast,” the mother lode. There must have been twenty pedicabs waiting for the show to end. All those tourists and their little princesses just waiting for their magical carriages to whisk them away on three wheels. I head over just as two large white stretch-limos pull up and a couple of cops shoo away all the pedicabs to make room. I quickly circle the block, but when I return all the princesses are gone. No Belle. No LeFou. Not even Cogsworth.

I park and talk with Bernard, who has been driving for a while. He’s a plumber by trade, but says he makes more some days pedicabbing. I have to stifle a laugh when I hear that. He tells me that before 9/11 the city was talking about testing and licensing the pedicabs, but afterward the issue seemed to be put on the back burner. That’s good news to Bernard and probably most of the other drivers. Who really wants the city over-legislating something else?

At 45th and Eighth, a middle-aged couple want to go to St. Mark’s and First Avenue after seeing a show. This time I ask for twenty dollars with kind of a guilty smile before they hop in. I plot a course in my head and try and remember if there any hills on the way to the East Village. They are a nice artsy pair and don’t complain when I plow into some big potholes near Macy’s. It’s nearing midnight, I haven’t eaten and my blood sugar must be getting low. I think my passengers suspect I’m tiring and offer to take a cab from 14th Street. No, I’m proving something to myself and on a mission now. I refuse. Then the conversation turns into pleasant discussion about how much the East Village has changed since they moved there in the early 70’s and the early 80s when I was there. Time flies and twenty minutes later we arrive at their appointed destination. They give me 20 bucks and a ten-spot as a tip. I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this thing.

I decide to book straight back to the stable and call it a night. I’ve done construction and worked in a truck garage, but this was the most physically demanding job I’ve ever had. I actually lost ten dollars — and maybe a few gallons of sweat — on the night, but saw the city in a different perspective — not to mention get a workout Lance Armstrong might admire.

There’s a good chance I might even call Rock for another night behind the handlebars again. But only if he has that newfangled electric-assist pedicab in working order.

"Fascination" is a rowdy trip back to 1970s New York City

By Julia Nash

"Fascination" is a novella that takes a series of unblinking written pictures of the less than stellar days of New York City in 1971 as seen through the eyes and rowdy adventures of a teenage boy exploring the frontiers of Fun City the summer before he entered, and then escaped his own high school demons in New Jersey. Tony Mangia's "fictional-memoir" pays attention to many details of the turbulent times—in a both pop culture and social issue sense—and is right on target. It isn't all politically correct, but neither were those times. And through all of the wonder and notoriety of that city, he somehow finds some goodness and redemption. It might even be called a love letter to the Ugly Duckling New York City of the '70s.

The story follows the 14 year-old's journey through the "White Flight" suburbs and his coming of age visits to that gritty New York City during an important mind-shaping, and altering, era of his life. The lessons learned come mostly from darkly humorous experiences and raucous escapades in the decaying yet colorful city, and are centered around a seedy Times Square arcade called Fascination—a hangout that "could take more than just a kid's money." At Fascination, where he meets city kids his own age, but of different colors and socio-economic backgrounds, the teen observes things close up—much of it not safe, good or even legal, but all of it fondly remembered. In one instance, he recalls Fascination as a melting pot of gangs, runaways and those who had nowhere else to go:

"Most chickens seemed to embrace the lifestyle, mainly because Fascination provided them with a safe haven. Some of them got busted up pretty bad just for being queer out on the street. Black eyes and even broken arms on some of the frailer ones—the results of hate-fueled muggings or beatdowns—weren’t uncommon. At least at Fascination, they had something of a sanctuary among their own kind." 

Fascination is available on Amazon Kindle and as a paperback.

See the All-Star Game's 'Apples on Parade' without going to NYC (PHOTO GALLERY)

Story and article by Tony Mangia

The world knows New York City as the Big Apple and — in celebration of the 10th anniversary of the first placement of All-Star statues around the host cities — MLB has scattered 35 six-foot tall, 350-pound sculptures shaped as the healthy fruit around NYC in a tribute to the 84th Midsummer Classic.

The commemorative All-Star statues have become a big part of the ASG experience and tourists searching out their favorite team's statue for a photo-op has become a great way for fans to get involved with the annual event and see the host city close up.

This year, the 2013 collection of statues (one for each team and a few add-ons) are on display at various locations in Manhattan with the exception of the one at Citi Field (a Matt Harvey toss from the Mets' iconic Home Run Apple).

The mostly unassuming apples can be spotted in the shadow of the nearly completed Freedom Tower at the World Financial Center (Rockies), uptown in bustling Harlem (L.A. Dodgers), outside the battle-scarred Intrepid aircraft carrier on the Hudson River (Nationals), blocking the aisles of a Fifth Avenue Tommy Bahama shop (S.F. Giants) and being ignored by young gamers in the Rockefeller Center Nintendo store (Mariners).

I spent three days with my trusty Nikon peddling through rivers of yellow taxis via mountain bike to capture the essence of the soon-to-be-forgotten apples. Did I mention the heat wave?

Along the way, I met a troop of Boy Scouts (Nationals), a protective 150-pound dog (Cardinals), an ASG ticket winner (Tigers), break-dancing street performers (Rangers) and got the opportunity to enjoy parts of the city I haven't seen in years — or just plain forgot about. I even saw Mets and Yankees fans (Athletics) making nice by taking pictures of each other.

If you aren't lucky enough to be visiting New York for the game this week — or just don't want to deal with the subways, the heat or rent a Citi Bike to see the "Apples on Parade" — here's all 35 of the colorful creations in one photo show to see what you're missing.

I think you'll like dem apples.

Citi Field

Photos by Tony Mangia

Rangers-Zuccotti Park

Angels-Bed Bath & Beyond

Mets-SNY Studios

Blue Jays-Intercontinental Hotel

Marlins-Grace Building

Middlebury Routs Tufts For Quidditch World Cup

Story and photos by Tony Mangia

On Sunday, under the night lights of a Hell's Kitchen park in New York City, Middlebury College defended it's title in the fourth Quidditch World Cup by defeating Tufts University 100-20.  In a sport where the the most prominent pieces of equipment are brooms, it seemed only fitting for Middlebury to sweep seven games over a two day span to win the magical title.

The whimsical sport, made popular by the beloved series of Harry Potter books and movies, was played by 40 participating high school and college teams in DeWitt Clinton Park on the west side of Manhattan.  Teams from schools like Yale, NYU, St. Lawrence, U Mass and Pittsburgh entertained a few thousand fans who filled the park for two days.

The weekend's festivities came right before next weekend's release of Part 1 of the the final chapter "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows."

The complicated game mixes a combination of dodgeball, basketball, soccer and a light touch of rugby into a fast moving sport. Players pass a ball and toss it through one of the opponent's three hoops to score ten points—all while holding a small broom between their legs. In the books, contestants actually fly like witches. If you can get past the initial sight of young adults hopping around with broom sticks between their legs, it actually looks like a really fun game and it's a lot more physical than that other broom sport—curling.

The co-ed teams play for about 20 minutes and the action is fast and rough.  The first aid tent was treating a lot of scraped knees and elbows, but an EMT said there were a few iced sprains too.

Teams with names like the "Violet Hipster Horcruxes" and the "Butterbeer Broooers" field 7 players from a roster of 20.  Headbands are mandatory. The game features player positions like "seekers', "beaters," and "keepers" who try and grab the "snitch"—a small purple sock in the waistband of a neutral player dressed in bright gold.  The snitch runner is probably the best athlete on the field because he is constantly running away from his pursuers or wrestling with them on the ground. The snitch whizzes around the 30x 40 meter field like a hyped up canary after a couple of Four Lokos.

Even for someone unfamiliar with J.K. Rowlings' fantastically popular books about the young wizard, and doesn't know a Muggle from a huddle or thinks Quidditch is a specialty sub at Quizno's, the game still has appeal.  There are currently over 500 college and 300 high school teams in leagues all over the country, so it's getting attention.

Middlebury College, where the real life version of Quidditch originated in 2005, is like the New York Yankees of the game. They are big and fast and were heavy favorites going into Sunday's game. Kate Olen, a returning chaser on last year's championship team was optimistic but cautious before the title game. "Tufts has a good finesse game," she said, "But this is the first time we ever played them, so we'll find out." Peyton Manning couldn't have been more diplomatic.

Even with the growing popularity of Quidditch, it's nice to see the simplicity of it hang on.  From the trophies constructed of gold and silver painted paper plates and cups to the hula hoops held onto poles with duct tape, everything rings backyard fun.  Even the out-of-the-box remarks from the game announcer over the loudspeakers—a snide reference to computer software or a nod to liberal politics (Well...just look at the schools)—and pop-culture exclamations about a rough play over the loudspeaker are erudite. "They (the players) are like extras in a Jackie Chan movie!" is just one verse of his colorful commentary.

The ever-growing event manages to stay as innocent as most of the youthful characters at Hogwarts.  No drug testing here and no Cam Newtons either.  They even have their version of the Heisman, the "Mansnel Award" for good sportsmanship.

I have seen the future sports star and he or she wears a headband and carries a small straw broom.  Most of the the sport's fans have top SAT scores and MBA's in their futures—even though they yell gibberish like "Get the Snitch" from the stands or razz players who get yellow or red penalty cards and are "sent to the hoops."

Maybe in the future, when either a bored Harvard or Yale genius is kicking around some crazy idea to advance the game, those brooms will actually fly.

Mysterious artwork appearing along Hudson River explained

Story and photos by Tony Mangia

MYSTERIOUS WOOD SCULPTURE ARTIST REVEALED

Upper Westsiders have been noticing the whimsical art for a long time — maybe years. Bikers and runners on the riverside path can't help but stare at the ever-changing piles of driftwood with the occasional plastic or metal accessory stacked up every twenty feet or so apart. Car drivers stuck in rush hour hell can even see the odd folk art along the West Side Highway. It helps break up the monotony of a long jog or boring commute. Dozens of these sculptures appear out of nowhere north of the 79th Street boat basin and disappear before crossing 110th Street.

Like wood cairns popping up out of nowhere, these displays line the east shore of the Hudson River. Some are simple, maybe a couple of small pieces of driftwood, to the elaborate jigsaw of a hundred sun-bleached branches and trestles which form small fortresses. Most of the sculptures look like giant eagle's nests or life-sized wooden figures waving to the sailors toiling on the endless procession of river barges. Other pieces need a little more interpretation. Maybe they resemble a tiny wooden Stonehenge or the stick man of Blair Witch to some of recreational boaters. "They are fun," exclaimed a fan named Mary. "Haunting," comments her friend, Andrea. Both agree that they like the stick monuments and, like anyone else who has seen them, wonder why and who would spend time building these temporary exhibits rising up for a mile and a half along the banks of the Hudson.

For years I peddled up Riverside Park to the George Washington Bridge on my bike—even when the path was an obstacle course of muddy patches, stairs and ventures onto Riverside Drive, not the smooth paved path it is today. The funny looking bundles of river wood were always there--always changing. The maze of crooked branches and driftwood made me smile. They were a wonderful mystery until I met the single-named creator—Alvaro.

Alvaro, who lives in Manhattan, and rides his bike to the river weekdays around noon to scavenge among the rocks for his building materials. Alvaro explained that he has been doing this since spring and has taken up where the "unknown old man" who started it, stopped. The unassuming artist doesn't delve into his personal life except to say he's of Italian descent by way of Columbia. He has been in New York for 22 years and proudly states that he is a stained-glass artisan by trade. The tanned Alvaro claims his Italian heritage draws him down to the river to "create and do something artistic." The Hudson River Greenway is his art gallery.

Wandering on the craggy river shore, between casting fisherman, and lazing street people, Alvaro picks through the bottles, paper wrappers, old diapers and "Coney Island Codfish"— otherwise known as used condoms. Alvaro doesn't specify what makes a good piece of building material. He doesn't seem too particular, but he does pick and choose. Maybe it is the crook of a branch or the width of a stump? Maybe it's the right bow of a small tree that completes a previously unfinished piece? Only the soft-spoken artist knows.

The sculptures usually have a short life. They have no names or titles. They are never the same and like a child's sandcastle swept away by the tide, Alvaro's creations meet a similar fate—only to wind and vandals. The northern gusts of the Hudson can topple some of the lighter stacks, but the real culprits are kids and "one bitter, old homeless man who has something against my work," claims Alvaro. He doesn't know who his nemesis is, but has spotted him vandalizing his work. Alvaro doesn't come to the river on weekends, so that's when the packs of destructive teens usually break up his displays. Each Monday, the artist starts gathering his wood, finds a new spot and starts building his happy parade of formations again.

I don't know how long Alvaro will keep crafting his temporary driftwood curiosities. The river will continue to yield an unending supply of material and inspiration and—in a city full of franchise chain stores, loud pop culture and fake celebrity—Alvaro's vision and anonymity help give New York City back some of its quiet incantation. I know the quirky little structures in Alvaro's free art show can make anyone's journey up or down the Hudson shore a little more enjoyable. See it for yourself.