SECTION: Sports; Pg. 49

LENGTH: 586 words

HEADLINE: YELL OF A GAME, BAR NONE

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:


THE CORE BLEACHER creatures are at the Sportpage bar last night on Second Ave., counting down to the Orioles, watching the Indians postpone their own doom with a meaningless 3-2 win in Game 4.

"Beer and baseball, the best seat in the house," Tom Brown says, pulling up a stool.

Before the first pitch, Larry Palumbo is on the cell phone to his girlfriend. At least we think it's his girlfriend, because he is engrossed in passionate conversation. "That was my bookie," Palumbo says. He has some college football action to settle.

"Thought it was your girlfriend," Brown says.

"It is my girlfriend," Palumbo says. "My girlfriend is my bookie. That's the beauty of it."

We are screaming our best stuff at the television set, at the bum Orel Hershiser, who is already leaking runs in the first inning. It is not quite as much fun as humiliating Manny Ramirez from the right-field bleachers, but then Ramirez doesn't hear every single word we yell in Section 39, either.

"Look at it this way," Brown says. "Women yell at us. We don't hear them, either, but it doesn't stop them."

"It's good practice," says Joey Lopez. "I'm warming up my voice for Baltimore."

The Yankees score two runs in the first, and then Tino Martinez is thrown out at the plate. The Indians are on the screen, high-fiving because they are only down two instead of three.

"Like the passengers high-fiving on the Titanic," says Donald Simpson.

The gang is just getting going, toasting owner Stan Dinner between every inning. The creatures have been coming here for big road games now more than a year. It is one of the few places where the owner doesn't bolt the front door when we arrive.

"At first when they started coming, I said, 'Oh my God,' " Dinner says, serving up another of his Cadillac Margaritas. "But they're friendly guys. And you know what? They get the whole place going."

The joint is not jumping as loud or fast as on Saturday night, when there were stools and chairs flying out the door onto the sidewalk after Paul O'Neill's grand slam. This is Sunday, Brown reminds us, "The Lord's day."

There also seems to be a problem with a few of the other customers at Sportspage. Several of them are watching a TV set with a feed that is mysteriously three seconds ahead of the others. This disturbs everybody's rooting rhythms.

In the back, a few patrons are trying to hold normal conversations about life and work, which is even more annoying than the fast TV set.

A couple exits the Sportspage early, and there is some discussion as to whether we creatures drove them out with our contagious enthusiasm and bon mots. No time to worry about that. "Beat the traffic," we chant at them.

Gooden's curve is still biting in the fifth, and Fox is still being stubborn, putting up one of those, "if necessary," ads for Game 5.

"Not only isn't the game going to be necessary," says Simpson. "These ads aren't necessary."

As it turns out, the ball bounces the wrong way and everything is necessary. The stupid Indians aren't even on our radar screen when it comes to rivalries, and yet they insist on hanging around, stealing some of our best chants.

We have decided, by the way, that the Orioles have moved past the pathetic Mariners in the hatred rankings, behind only the Mets and the Red Sox.

Tonight, we finish off the Indians at the Sportspage.

"I can't believe they pay you to follow us around," Palumbo says to me.

Every move you make . . .

Notes: Bleacher Creature

LOAD-DATE: October 07, 1997