A Vulgar Display Of Power: Old Roads, New Gods, & The Sons Of Men
“Out on the road today I saw a Dead Head sticker on a Cadillac.”
-August 27th, 2011-
The drive to Charleston, West Virginia is a proverbial walk in the park compared to many of the other places I’ve visited during the 2011 baseball season. A mere 87 miles from my hometown and roughly the same distance to my former baseball home away from home on Mound Street in Columbus, Ohio. While it’s not my ideal direction of travel, due to my history with a few places I’d be force to pass down this old road, it is however everything one might expect of a trip to the minor leagues. The major highways I’ve used to reach my Major League destinations gave way to two lane roads passing by cattle farms and corn fields, the country home with the occasional old car for sale or up on blocks in the front yard, tractor trailers traveling at breakneck speed in the opposite lane, trailer homes, and the oddly placed adult book store/sex club a few yards from a church. All in all what one might expect to find roaming the West Virginia countryside. However, it would be a major flaw to designate this recent personal assignment “minor league” to any degree outside the level of baseball I ventured to watch. In fact, it was perhaps one of the most major and important journeys I’ve made on my 2011 version of my self-titled Church of The Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major and Minor League Baseball Tour.
I was originally going to make this short drive and mark Appalachian Power Park off my list back on July 18th, but as I documented in my previous writings, unexpected vehicle trouble forced me to miss the game between the New York Yankees Single-A affiliate Charleston (SC) River Dogs and the West Virginia Power, the Single-A affiliate of the Pittsburgh Pirates. To say that my second attempt was quite an enjoyable experience would be quite honestly an understatement of epic proportion and it actually made me feel rather happy that my first try had been a failure. The July 18th trek would have marked the beginning of my tour to baseball venues I’d yet to visit and I feel that perhaps my feelings at the time and lacking in multiple venue experiences would not have had allowed me to truly judge the park and all of its offerings in a fair manner. Furthermore, this baseball park visit would also leave me questioning why I’d taken so long to venture to The Mountain State for some old-time religion via the West Virginia Power? Especially since they had once been affiliated with the Milwaukee Brewers from 2005 to 2008 – my favorite National League club. It would appear my loyalty to the Yankees organization and particularly the Columbus Clippers from 1992 to 2008 had left me far too biased and perhaps a bit too elitist in respect to where and which teams I would visit to watch a game. Thank the baseball gods for saving my soul, for this experience brought forth not only a greater appreciation for the city of Charleston, but for the game and those who worship at the cathedral known as Appalachian Power Park. Let’s just say, I was blind, but now I see.
APPALACHIAN POWER PARK - CHARLESTON, WV
Tucked ever so perfectly in the Charleston’s east end, at 601 Morris Street, Appalachian Power Park features an atmosphere and scenic backdrop which rivals and perhaps truly captures and contains what many stadiums at higher levels of baseball and built for far more in cost aspire to attain. The surrounding warehouses and railroad tracks provide an ambiance that higher levels of baseball often attempt to duplicate but fail to capture by incorporating far too slick and simulated structures. To put it plainly, Appalachian Power Park is what Huntington Park in Columbus, Ohio should’ve been. Aside from the naming rights linked to the park, the home field to West Virginia’s only minor league baseball team lacks any sign of the overwhelming corporate world so often seen in sports venues across the country.
Much of my writing and pursuit to visit every major and minor league stadium in Major League Baseball and the minor leagues throughout the United States revolves around the theme of finding a home to replace that which was lost both in my personal life last December and in my baseball universe in regards to the dismantling of Cooper Stadium in Columbus, Ohio in 2008. Having found direction through baseball, it would be foolish of me not to say that in my short time pursuing this mission, Appalachian Power Park is perhaps the closest thing I’ve found in regards to baseball that comes close to the feelings and affinity I felt for the former home of the Columbus Clippers where I was baptised in baseball as a boy. It’s also somewhat appropriate to mention that during my research after visiting the city of Charleston I discovered that the emotional connections and the vibe found there is not the only link between West Virginia’s capital and the Columbus Clippers. In fact, prior to calling Columbus home, the previous incarnation of baseball in Charleston moved to Ohio’s capital to become the Clippers in 1977.
From the moment I arrived within the vicinity of the park I was pleasantly surprised and as I pulled my Jeep a.k.a. “Supernova” into a parking lot just across the street from the park’s right field my pleasurable experience began when the attendant informed me parking was a mere three dollars. Yes, it was good to be back in the minor leagues! My recent travels including all the way back to March at the various SPring Training facilities had seen me pay prices to simply park my vehicle as high as twenty dollars. After finding a suitable parking spot in the lot, I gathered my regular supplies for worship at a baseball cathedral, mainly my camera and sunglasses, and made my way to will call to pick up the ticket I’d purchased on a whim just a few short hours earlier online through the team’s website, which cost a whopping $9.50 for a seat directly behind home plate in the second row. In all honesty, from the time I left my vehicle to the final out of the game, the experience was stellar as I watched the Power play unfortunately a lop-sided 11-3 game against the visiting Lexington Legends. Despite their losing effort what made the game and experience was all that took place not only on the field but before, during, and after in the stands and throughout the stadium’s walkway.
WEST VIRGINIA POWER CF MEL ROJAS JR. PREPARING ON DECK - 27 AUGUST 11
The night featured moments that brought out emotions of great pride within myself, the display of power of human will and determination for the betterment of our fellow-man, the joys and playfulness of youth, and the signs of aging and the changing of the seasons in respect to my life and the years spent following the game. I took my seat during pregame festivities and began clicking away on my camera as the stadium’s public address announcer introduced a group of attendees who were set to throw out ceremonial first pitches, a common custom at every professional baseball game. Among those who would be given the honor was a young man from Spencer, West Virginia named Drew Miller, who unlike many of the honorees often chosen by teams to toss off-target pitches from the front of the mound prior to games was not the winner of a team sponsored sweepstakes or the privileged representative of a corporate sponsor leaving the trappings of their office long enough to promote the business by throwing a ball in the middle of the diamond while donning team supplied apparel. Miller was a man with a purpose, jogging 2000 miles from California to his hometown in West Virginia to raise money for the Wounded Warriors Project.
The tone of the evening was set by Miller’s presence and the announcement of the opportunity to donate to his cause, which I was very happy to do before the start of the game. My charitable side had been mostly dedicated to the homeless that gathered outside of the various stadiums I’ve visited this summer, a trend that is sadly common for those of you who do not attend professional sporting events. As a veteran of the U.S. Army’s 1-7 Cavalry, I was compelled to meet Miller and thank him for what he was doing, which finally happened as I was leaving the stadium at game’s end. It was quick and candid, but an important moment of the evening to simply get an opportunity to thank someone for supporting soldiers when often the politicizing of the current war efforts takes precedent to remembering and helping those who have been affected most permanently by it.
On a lighter note, the atmosphere of the small venue in Charleston was also made special by the fan involvement and participation that was ever-present from the first pitch to the last. The crowd resembled that of a high school or college football game than that of the oh so common “wait for the scoreboard prompt to tell us when to chant or applaud” crowd so often seen at baseball games in the United States. This is due to the fans who comprise the area of the 6,200 seat stadium known as Rowdy Alley, where throughout the game chants such as “Warm up the toaster.” and “You are toast.” can be heard during at-bats of the opposing team. Such fanfare was displayed with true fanaticism and I found it to be quite refreshing that, despite the team being down as much as eight runs at times, the fans were still actively involved in the game.
The day had an overall theme of being forced to visit my past via a new experience, so it was only fitting that both the Lexington Legends and the West Virginia Power featured second generation players. Obviously anytime you can begin counting by decades with respect to how long you’ve been interested or involved with elements of your life it’s a sign of aging and experience, and in regards to baseball perhaps nothing more brings this to your attention than when the sons of men you watched as a child become professional players themselves. As I alternated between taking photos and flipping pages in my game program, I couldn’t help but grin upon seeing Mel Rojas Jr. of the Power and Delino Deshields Jr. of the Legends – who haven’t been alive as long as I’ve been following the game. Their fathers had been teammates on the Montreal Expos in the early 1990s, and these two young men were but newborns when I was reborn in the religion that is professional baseball. While such a revelation might be cause for anxiety or a midlife crisis/grey hair count in the mirror in the morning for some, I found the presence of these two young prospects to be more a sign of the constant that is baseball.
Life is wrought with change, that which is immediate and unforseen and that which is known and necessary. Yet somehow I’ve found that, throughout the changing of the seasons, over the course of nearly three decades of watching seasons of baseball, there is a familiarity that is found within the confines of a park or through the names upon the backs of the jerseys and in the idiosyncrasies of the players on the field that provides a comfort and sense of belonging to the present rather than a longing for the past. Through that which is new, one can be reminded of that which is old and rather than mourn and cling to the past one can view what once was as the gateway to that which is now. Just as in the way the sons of men who played the game now stand in the on-deck circles and sit in the dugouts once occupied by their fathers, the boy who once collected cardboard gods is now replaced by the man who sits perched upon the cloud in his own heaven that is the various stadiums across this country. Though a mere spectator of the spectacle that is the game of baseball, I’ve become far more appreciative of all that is to be witnessed and how this venture into a fanatical baseball adventure was made possible. Ironic somewhat that at the home of the single-A affiliate of the Pittsburgh Pirates, I’m reminded of how it’s always been somewhat of a “pirate’s life for me”. Home is not a white picket fence and a garage, it’s an eight and a half by eight and a half by seventeen inch plate surrounded by dirt and grass upon a diamond. It’s a plane ticket, a car ride, a seat behind the mesh-netting or in the upper deck. It’s my church. It’s where I heal my hurts. It’s a night like tonight. It’s an afternoon in Cincinnati or Tampa or a night game in, of all places, Charleston, West Virginia. Guess John Denver was right about these country roads after all.
Until next time…
From Misery To Missouri & The Fall Of The Rome of the West
Much of this is presented in a language that isn’t easy for everyone who reads it to understand, but that’s by design. I got in my car on March 10th, 2011 heading to Tampa, Florida with no intent of making the drive back north or to anywhere else for that matter. I had a serious case of the blues a penchant to drive bit too fast, gambling, and sharp objects and a stack of letters to be read post-mortem. But my cry for help turned into an awakening thanks to the green grass of places like Steinbrenner Field, City of Palms Park, Joker Marchant Stadium, Florida Auto Exchange Stadium, and Bright House Field. It wasn’t trying to forget that saved me, it was remembering. Remembering being that kid who would tape a strike zone sized box on the side of his dad’s garage at the age of twelve then walk off sixty feet six inches and throw 100 pitches in the summer time, the batting practice sessions with my sister who would work to become a collegiate softball player, the dime-a-dog nights, and everything else that came along with nearly thirty years of loving the game of baseball.
So here I am in a hotel room on August 10th, six months later, in St. Louis, Missouri, remembering, rejoicing, and recounting not only everything that led me to Busch Stadium III for the game between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Milwaukee Brewers, but how lucky I am. I honestly have no clue where I’m going next in regards to the game, and that’s what’s most fulfilling about this, it’s random and the only calculation involved is/was the decision to do it and the gas mileage. After that, it’s pretty much who is playing on the days I’m free from the trappings of work and can I get there? So with that break from character out of the way, let’s slip back into “the madness” that is my latest revival at yet another venue in what I affectionately call the Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball.
The journey to St Louis’ Busch Stadium actually was more about seeing the team opposing the hometown Cardinals, than a scheduled quest to see yet another Populous created cathedral at 700 Clark Street. The Friday prior to making the trek from the small town boredom that is my typical daily existence, I spent the majority of my day at work pacing back and forth from pallets of precious metals to scales with the thought of baseball on my mind and where I would be heading on my three days off. The desire to see the Brewers was at the forefront of my mind as I’ve been fond of the franchise since the arrival of Prince Fielder at Nashville several years earlier, adopting them as my National League team of interest. I’ve often joked, that if the Yankees are my wife, the Brewers are my mistress. In fact, the Brewers were a part of one of my most cherished baseball moments, a yet to be written account, at Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati, Ohio in 2009 when I had the pleasure of running the bases with a former girlfriend while the theme from the film “The Natural” blared from the stadium’s public address system. It’s a rare occasion to step foot on the hallowed grounds of a Major League stadium, let alone “touch’em” all, but that’s another tale for another time.
My original hope for this most recent pilgrimage was to drive to Milwaukee, Wisconsin and visit Miller Park, but I’d picked a week to long for “my mistress” when of course they were on the road. Of course, those often mentioned baseball gods and the folks in charge of scheduling for MLB had them in St. Louis to do battle with their National League Central foe in St Louis. So without hesitation I purchased my ticket to the second game of the three game series and booked a room in a Maryland Heights, Missouri hotel where I am now pounding away on my keyboard post game.
My arrival to Missouri, which brought me across the flat lands of Indiana and Illinois, all the while scanning AM Radio stations for a frequency carrying ESPN radio that more often than not offered a plethora of religious and political programming of the right leaning nature, was celebrated with a summer afternoon down pour of rain. A surprise no doubt, since the forecast called for the contrary earlier in the day, but served as yet another example of the inevitability of instantaneous change being ever-present and why I tend to prefer my weather reports by simply stepping out the front door to assess the situation. Heavy rain is also always quite the delight when navigating unknown highways heading to never before seen destinations as a motorist. Similarly for any baseball fan, rain on a game day is our version of finally landing the date to the cinema with the prom queen to see the blockbuster film of the summer only to have her stand you up to go watch the local theater troop perform a play written by one of her friends she’s also into who turns out to be gay. In other words, it’s fearsome, threatening, and to be avoided at all costs. Rain is an element for football, or handegg, whichever you prefer. But I digress.
When I arrived at my hotel, no worse for wear from the unexpected precipitation, I struck up a conversation of course with the attendant working the desk. In all my years of roaming off and on, these encounters can be both pleasant and downright spooky. Lucky for me, this particular instance would fall in the first of those two categories. Upon finding out why I was in town, he inquired on which team I was pulling for in the game. Like a true diplomat aware of my surroundings, I replied by saying I was mainly there to see the stadium. He replied by saying that was a good answer because if I’d said Milwaukee, he would’ve placed my room on the fifth floor, which obviously was not a good place to be in a summer rain storm at a hotel with only three levels. Despite his joke, he wished me the best on my future journeys and stated it was a bucket list adventure he hoped to one day undertake and not to fret about the weather, stating “they’ll play tonight”.
Despite the seemingly never-ending or long and drawn out aspect to the MLB schedule, tonight’s game, as well as the three game series as a whole, was actually a crucial point in the 2011 MLB season. Moreover, it represented the rise of one franchise and the decline of another in regards to this year’s postseason picture. The nickname of the city the Cardinals call home, “The Rome of the West”, is rather fitting in respect to baseball as they have built and can boast at having an empire only secondary in nature to that of the New York Yankees in regards to their history, fan loyalty, and most importantly World Series championships. Tonight however, a proverbial fire that had recently been sparked during a series between the Cardinals and the Brewers that saw the teams’ elite power hitters being hit by pitches and brought forth a litany of questions and controversy from sports media outlets and criticism via internet message boards for St. Louis manager Tony Larussa, grew into a roaring flame of Milwaukee Brewers players executing at crucial moments of the game that spread the two teams further apart in the standings. While many a fellow fan and those more qualified to do so would call me insane at this juncture to make the following statement, I’m hard pressed from what I’ve seen throughout the season thus far and firsthand to believe the Midwest’s and National League’s version of baseball’s Roman Empire is burning, and I have been privileged enough to sit within good view of its flickering flame grinning and playing my proverbial lyre.
Ryan Braun Preparing To Face Cardinals Pitcher Jake Westbrook
Somewhere Bob Uecker is smiling, as he should be. Milwaukee has become the clear-cut darling of the National League Central. The win earlier tonight places them 5 games ahead of St. Louis in the standings and the aggressive nature displayed by Milwaukee seems indicative of their intentions to march into the postseason.
365 Days Later – Just Say No
“JUST SAY NO”
For the past few months, you’ve been subjected to “the madness” that is my personal reflection and recovery process. I’ve used the game of baseball as a way to inject life into the walking dead I’d become. For those who take the time to read and share in the experiences of my off kilter baseball journal and journey, as always, thank you. This is only the beginning. The game has indeed changed me. I have likened it most often to the catalyst for my “religious” renewal and revival. But don’t be fooled. Baseball is the bane of my humble existence. The brain-child of Abner Doubleday and fodder for poets, playwrights, and the favorite pastime of past generations and political figures throughout America’s history has done little more for me than provide a false sense of hope and unrealistic world-view. Parents often spend time with young children and teenagers delving into countless conversations warning them of the perils of sex, drugs, and popular music of the day. But it is baseball they should be steering the youth of today clear of – and based on the current level of its popularity to other major sports in this country, it appears some loving parents and community leaders have already begun the fight against this horrid robber of life.
My story is like that of many other a poor soul led astray by this wretched game. I became addicted at a very young age, and as the years progressed I became more and more entrenched in the history and the playing of the sport . What I’ve seen as a result of this horrid addiction has made me unable to fit into society in the same manner that so many others in my community have done with ease.
Baseball has made me delusional, believing that a hero can come in many a guise. That whether a person is overweight, thin, tall, short, old, young, fast, slow, debilitated, healthy, or even chemically enhanced, they can make a resounding mark that will affect the lives of many in a singular instant through a singular action. That socioeconomic background is not a determining factor in a person’s success. That the racial divide is surmountable. That a utopian society exists for men of varying cultures and geographic regions. That this utopia is a patch of green grass where men, women and children come together to attain a common goal. That time is irrelevant and eternity is a possibility. That immortality can be gained and hard work does indeed pay off.
Baseball has provided me a vision, or perhaps a series of hallucinations: Angels defeating Giants ; the threat of Pirates dashed by Braves; Cardinals doing battle with Tigers and coming out victorious. Baseball has given me view to many things that do not exist in the so-called normal world. It is a harmful addiction that has given me the belief that curses exist and can also be broken. That dynasties rise and fall and are not just the subject for historians of past cultures discussed in classrooms and during lectures in university halls.
The game has made me believe in so many things that seem impossible in a world without it. People standing together and singing in unison. Hot dogs running foot races. The belief that legends live and sometimes it’s okay to steal, errors can be redeemed, and perfection, though rare, is indeed possible.
Yes indeed, baseball has harmed me greatly. My daily life is compounded and complicated by the ideals and visions I’ve seen and come to know through it. I have flashbacks of televison broadcasts, highlight reels, and eye-witness accounts of feats to support an otherwise fantasy life. I hear voices from radio broadcasts, public address systems, and cheering crowds at varying hours of my day. My ears are haunted by the reverberation of the crack of the bat. My nose is often filled,without reason, to the scent of leather gloves and balls
Beware! There are many relentless side effects resulting from the exposure to this dastardly invention. Prevent others from becoming like me. Keep your children and those you know from this game at all costs. It’s a road to ruin. Any further reading from henceforth will only lead you down a path to sure demise, depravity, and a false sense of a world of heroes and harmony. If you choose, like I did, to delve further into this gateway drug of false hopes my only words of advice are that you’ve been warned.
Become anything else you’d like, a doctor, lawyer, degenerate gambler or whoremongering drunkard. Read fairy-tales, trash novels purchased at airport bookstores, and the daily gossip rags. Just stay away from all things baseball. Nothing but madness, fanaticism, and false hopes is found down its path.
Cardboard Birds, Concrete Cats, & The Diamond In The Rough
Detroit, Michigan is my kind of beautiful. She’s the metropolitan version of a former teenage beauty queen now in her mid-to late thirties – turn your head a little to the right and you’ll catch a glimpse of her magnificence and all the glory of her breathtaking qualities, while a slight turn to the left will give the view to her aged and worn features born out of trials, tribulations, and the prom kings and fence post boys that have left her abandoned and experienced in ways she never once imagined in the long gone days of her youth. She’s industrious, musical, and has a bit of a reputation. She’s the home of the Cadillac, The Ice Man, The Nuge, Iggy, MC5, The Brown Bomber, Smokey, Stevie, and Aretha. She is perfect in her imperfections. Yes indeed, she’s my kinda beautiful.
Wedged between the rough and tumble and the corporate symbols that drive the city, that can also be seen imprinted on the vehicles being driven on highways and back roads across this great country, is a diamond named Comerica Park. A jewel which sparkles like no other diamond I’ve seen with my own eyes at any point of my baseball fanaticism. A structure which houses not only a baseball team but a small amusement park, the spirit of past legends such as Ty Cobb, and is guarded by giant concrete tigers perching and prowling in poses in the midst of the urban jungle.
COMERICA PARK - DETROIT, MICHIGAN
I awoke at 6:30 a.m. on the morning of the 28th of July still trying to register in my brain the fact that less than 24 hours before I’d witnessed a no-hitter by Ervin Santana in Cleveland, Ohio. Although I was fatigued from the drive the day prior, I was excited to get on the road to Michigan as I would not only be following my pursuit to visit yet another baseball cathedral, but the Los Angeles Angels as well. The game would be the first in a series between the Tigers and Angels, two teams vying for a playoff position. I was curious to see if yesterday’s performance in Cleveland would somehow turn into momentum for L.A., and I had something I needed to do once I arrived at Comerica Park. So with backpack strapped and ticket in hand, I made my way in northwestern direction toward the Motor City.
It had been quite sometime since I’d been in this portion of the world, let alone the baseball universe. Eight years to be exact. There was once a young woman I had been infatuated with from the Toledo, Ohio area. It was nice that my journey to the unseen and unknown was a chance to be reminded and have a smile put upon my face of that time. I recalled our time together when one afternoon when we drove by the home of the Toledo Mud Hens for the first time and how strange it was now I was attempting to visit all of these parks beyond the Ohio region. However, it was not the love or heart of a woman I was on a quest for as I motored across Interstate 75 toward Detroit, but to pay tribute to a wonderful baseball personality and out of love of the game. Although I am no doubt a torch carrier when it comes to matters of the heart, it was what I’ve carried in my wallet for years that gave me great purpose on this day. Though I am not a Tigers fan, for several years I’ve carried a 1977 Topps #265 Mark Fidrych baseball card, a personal tribute to one of baseball’s more non-traditional players.
I was too young to experience the spectacle that was “The Bird”, but the legend that surrounded him and his on the mound antics made me appreciate what he brought to the game during his short tenure with Detroit in the late 1970s. Before the antics of modern-day hurlers such as San Francisco Giants closer Brian “The Beard” Wilson, there was “The Bird” , a shooting star in regards to pitching, who made his debut for the Tigers in 1976 winning 19 games and posting 24 complete games in his Rookie of the Year winning season. Aside from his statistics, it’s hard as a fan not to be drawn to a player who was not only lights out on the bump, but had a notion to talk to the ball, himself, and looked like Sesame Street’s Big Bird. So while I often wax poetic on the reverent elements of the game of baseball, it’s also those irreverent and filled with youthful exuberance which make it such a draw to me. Fidrych represents not only what the game so often lacks to those who view it as a boring sport filled with overpaid millionaires, but a contrast to another famous former Tiger personality that made the drive from small town Jackson, Ohio a necessary task, the legendary and polarizing Ty Cobb.
During my time in Lakeland, Florida back in March, I was seated behind home plate at Joker Marchant Stadium during a spring training affair on the afternoon of March 16th between the Tigers and St. Louis Cardinals and I had intended to leave the Fidrych card there as I felt it was a fitting gesture. However, my tribute somehow got forgotten in between Albert Pujols’ grand slam and text messages to and from “my therapist”/bikini model/friend Dr. O’Malley. Long story short, I left without completing my mission. It was something I had to do this time around as we come this way but once. However, the question was where exactly would be the right place to leave it? I suppose sometimes questions such as this answer themselves and the moment would indeed come. But knowing that I was seated behind the Tiger dugout in Section 134OD Row 12 Seat 4 it would seem mere sacrilege to leave it perched in a cup holder or in the seat itself. However, as I said, the answer appeared eventually.
When I arrived to the ball park my first order of business, as it always is when driving to a stadium, is the matter of parking. I hate to say it but after the Pittsburgh experience, I judge a lot about a “church’ visit by how easily I can place my vehicle in a lot or parking garage in relation to the stadium. As with my other past experiences, aside from Pittsburgh which was a nightmare and Chicago’s Wrigley Field (a yet to be written account) which I walked five miles to visit, parking was an easy task. In fact, the lot I chose was a short walk from the park and merely ten dollars in cost, unfortunately I only had twenty-dollar bills and the attendant said if I wanted to pull up and wait he’d get me change on the next car through. I offered to just let him have it all as I was excited to get to the stadium and just wanted out of the car which I’d been inside of for five hours to his surprise no doubt. So I parked my car as he yelled to the Hispanic gentlemen also attending the lot, “put him where he can get out easy!”.
Perhaps one of the best parts of this visit was the walk from the lot to Comerica, down side streets and alley ways with a full view of the rough and the rugged as well as the more modern and cosmopolitan architecture the city has to offer. It was slightly overcast, which made me call on the spirits of The Bird and Ty Cobb to bless me on this day so that my arrival at yet another temple created by HKO/Populous would not be greeted or cut short by rain. Lucky for me and other patrons of the park that day, my prayer was answered and we were blessed with all one could expect from a day at the park, a Miguel Cabrera home run, Manager Jim Leyland being ejected by the umpires, a disgruntled Brad Penny arguing with his own teammate, catcher Victor Martinez, in full view of the fans, and the sun peeking from behind the clouds.
I spent the first seven innings of the game taking it all in, snapping photographs and conversing with those next to me, about the park, the game, baseball in general, and the magic I had witnessed the day before in Cleveland. I left my seat in the final two innings to tour the grounds and stand in the center field concourse where fans were yelling at the Angels outfielders with various heckles and insults that couldn’t help but put a devilish grin on my face. But the true draw for me in the outfield area was the monument of Ty Cobb.
If Fidrych was my draw to this team for his quirky spirit, Cobb’s allure spoke more to my dark side. In fact, I would go so far to say that both personalities best exemplify my nature. Where Fidrych is the childlike joy within me, Cobb is my demon seed that unfortunately rears his ugly head with a sharp tongue, piercing eyes, and spikes high intending to harm abrasive nature. While The Bird is a symbol of greatness cut short, The Georgia Peach is the symbol of greatness realized but so full of angst that it pushes away all that it has loved or is loved by and haunted by mistakes and memories that go beyond simple childhood games on dirt and grass. Fidrych represents the part that attracts, Cobb is that which repels others with a “fuck you all” brash and lonesome bravado.
I exited the stadium before the final out, to bask in the glory that is the giant concrete tigers surrounding the park. On the sidewalk outside the gate were bricks with the names of former players and the dates they played for the Tigers and there came the answer to where I would lay to rest the piece of cardboard I had held in my wallet all these years. I searched until I finally found it, a small brick square engraved with MARK FIDRYCH (1976-1980). I waited until no one was nearby and took the baseball card from my wallet and placed it on the ground. I snapped a few quick photos and walked away. I can only hope that some appreciative Tigers fan stumbled upon the bubble gum card and with excitement and wondered how it ever came to be there, or maybe a gust of wind simply blew it away in a quick swoop, just as fast as The Bird’s career had come and gone. Either way, I was at peace. Just as I always am leaving the hallowed ground of a baseball stadium. I stopped just long enough to have my picture taken in front of the tiger statue at the front gate I was so enamored with and lucky for me the crowd had died down to the point I was able to do so without interference.
I then stopped to give money to a man panhandling outside of the stadium which is a common scene I’ve come to notice of late. “God bless you.”, he said humbly. “God bless you.”, I replied, then headed back down the alley ways toward my trusty “Supernova”, back to the grind and gridlock of the highway and real life, wondering where I was headed next on the road map of baseball and all places in between. Leaving behind the cheers and feel of another visit to another house of worship in the Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball for the surroundings of the highway, its racing lights, and the yellow lines I try to stay between both on the road and in my mind.
Until next time…
Angels Thrashing Against Me: That Old Time Religion, Prayers, Superstitions, & No-Hits
Text message:
Tuesday, July 26th 2011
From: Becks
Have fun at your game tomorrow. Say hi to God.
“When an angel completes its task it ceases to exist” is a phrase I’ve been known to throw around. Personally, it’s always been my way of saying my work is done here. I’m by no means angelic by nature, I have too much of a scatological sense of humor and often a disconnected feeling from my fellow-man to sport a halo. However, Ervin Santana is an angel. The Los Angeles/Anaheim/California kind that is, and on a Wednesday afternoon in July in Cleveland he turned Progressive Field into baseball Heaven, at least for those of us there not rooting for an Indians’ victory.
PROGRESSIVE FIELD - CLEVELAND, OHIO
The journey to Progressive Field in Cleveland, Ohio on July 27th, as part of my quest to visit every minor league and major league stadium in my lifetime, was not my first visit to the home of the Cleveland Indians. However, it had been quite sometime since I had attended a game there, due to my once very open disdain for the franchise and its fans stemming from a bad experience years earlier. Over the years, I’ve banged on the city of Cleveland and fans of the Indians pretty hard. I’ve even been known to quote or paraphrase Mariners outfielder Ichiro Suzuki when discussing either topic, by saying “If I ever said I was happy about having to go to Cleveland, I’d punch myself in the face, because I was lying.” However, either by the grace of maturity or just sheer respect for my fellow fanatics, I’ve come to have a greater appreciation for The Forest City and even a bit of sympathy for their long and seemingly endless wait for a winner in regards to professional sports.
My last visit to the home of the Tribe, then Jacobs Field, was on July 14th, 2002. It was a day that began as another typical dominant performance by the visiting Bronx Bombers. Through the first five innings, Yankees hitters gave starting pitcher Mike Mussina a seven run cushion and appeared to be cruising to their 58th win of the season. However, something quite uncharacteristic and almost surreal occurred in the ninth inning that summer day, as Mariano Rivera would enter the game in the bottom of the ninth with the Yankees leading 7-4 and surrender six earned runs allowing the Indians to walk-off with a 10-7 victory. Needless to say, the walk from stadium to my vehicle while wearing a Yankees jersey was rather challenging. With the result of the game and the verbal abuse from the fans celebrating the win, it made it easy to despise all that was Cleveland. However, over time and due to what would transpire on this return visit, my hatred eventually gave way to an utter appreciation for the Indians organization.
The trip to Progressive Field on July 27th, 2011 was never supposed to occur. I say this because my original intended visit on this baseball religious pilgrimage I call The Church of The Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball was scheduled for July 4th. However, there was a bit of a mix up with the Liam to my Noel Gallagher, and I chose to not attend what would eventually become another Yankees’ defeat at the hand of the Cleveland Indians. So by my estimation, I was never supposed to be on my way to Cleveland to see the Angels play the Indians, but by the grace of the baseball gods, I did. Oddly enough, while en route and as usual when I’m not blasting Nine Inch Nails, Guns N’ Roses, or some random pop music I’ve become fascinated with while on one of my drives, I was tuned in to a sports talk radio station during which I was made aware that on the night before the game I was on the way to (July 26th), the Indians minor league affiliate Columbus Clippers had earned their first perfect game in franchise history in Syracuse thanks to nine innings of magic by pitcher Justin Germano. My immediate thought of course was how amazing would it be, if today, the big club somehow manage to repeat the feat?
I’ve been following the game for twenty-seven years and attending live professional baseball games for nineteen. In that time, I’ve witnessed in-person only minor degrees of baseball history. My most major historical feat that comes to thought immediately was on September 4th, 1992, I was lucky enough to be one of the 23, 852 fans at Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati to witness, then New York Mets first baseman, Eddie Murray’s 17th career grand slam. Another great moment outside the park, which no doubt deserves a “diary” entry all its own, was an encounter in March of 2008 in Underground Atlanta with former Negro League player James “Red” Moore. Believe me, seeing career milestones is one thing, but bearing witness to living American/sports history is something entirely different when you realize the significance of such a man, as well as the ugly reasons why he and others were forced to play in a separate league of the sport you love solely based upon the color of skin.
Needless to say, seeing a no-hitter live is something every baseball fan dreams of and very few will ever witness aside from highlight reels or television broadcasts. Personally, the closest I’d come besides those two ways was via video game and once at a family reunion on my mother’s side of the family where at the age of 13 I no-hit the adults in a game of baseball pitting kids versus adults. I unfortunately gave up organized baseball at a young age for the same reason during said game I beaned one particular hitter in the adult line-up that day, because he was my father. But I digress…this too is another writing session for another time. Where were we, yes, the majesty and rarity of the no-hitter. Let us proceed.
The thought of the Indians duplicating the feat performed by their Triple-A affiliate vanished almost as quickly as it appeared while making the trek from Jackson, Ohio to 2401 Ontario Street in Cleveland. However, unbeknownst to me, somewhere along the odyssey my whisper was perhaps mistaken for a prayer to one the baseball patron pitching saints or the gods themselves. Besides, all this baseball mumbo jumbo is just a way to forget some silly girl, right? You’re crazy, they said so. This isn’t really a quest for something magic, it’s madness. The title of your writings isn’t play on the stigma placed on you by someone else empowering you at all, it’s all rambling nonsense right? These things don’t really happen. There are no baseball gods, it’s all superstition. Baseball is dead, remember?
I arrived one hour before the first pitch of the game and found parking much easier than my last stadium journey a few weeks earlier in Pittsburgh. I entered the venue from the street through the left field entrance and quickly made my way to my section of the field – Section 152 Row F Seat 3 – front row behind the safety and security of home plate. As I’ve mentioned previously, there is a certain calm I have within the confines of a baseball stadium and my financial standing now gives me the ability to add somewhat of a luxurious aspect I didn’t possess back when I purchased my first game ticket what seems like eons ago at the age of sixteen. The journey from the cheap seats to the front row sponsored by a local Mercedes-Benz dealer may seem like a few strides down a concourse, but the stark reality is it’s actually miles upon miles and several digits in distance. For baseball zealots such as myself, it’s a sign of our dedication to a system of beliefs or culture and a better view at a the teams on the field fighting for a position in the league standings, for many others it’s merely a better view of their economic and social standing. Perhaps that’s why I get the looks I do from some of the regulars. I show up merely a ragamuffin, dressed in my best super hero or metal band t-shirt, cut off camo BDU pants, my long wind-blown hair from the road, and cheap aviator sunglasses. Guess that’s why they always check my ticket or ask where or whom I purchased it from, just making sure I’m “in the right place”.
On this day, it would be hard not to say that I was exactly where I belonged. Far from “home”, yet not far from home. To my right, I could catch a glimpse of Jared Weaver from time to time peeking from out of the visiting dugout. To my immediate left the tunnel which the umpires would use to enter the field. Further left, the Indians dugout and when my eyes were to the front of me the wide open view of yet another hallowed ground created by the architectural designers Populous, the 216 square inch house shaped plate, and the minor gods of the Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball. Little did those 21,546 there that day know that very shortly after 12:05 p.m., we would bear witness to 2 hours and twenty minutes of history, superstition, and baseball lore. Something that first occurred on record nearly 136 years to the day on July 28th, 1875 and would be duplicated for the 272nd time that day, perhaps the single most obvious display of an individual’s ability to exhibit domination over an entire team in the game – the no-hitter.
LA ANGELS PITCHER ERVIN SANTANA PITCHING TO LONNIE CHISENHALL - 27 JULY 11
Perhaps out of excitement or my desire to take photographs, I did not purchase anything to eat or drink on my way to my seat. I had a waitress at my disposal but chose instead to wait to leave my seat to buy some ballpark refreshments. At the start of the third inning of play I took notice of what Santana was in the midst of and told myself that when the first Cleveland hit of the game happened as it surely would I thought, I would then and only then, leave my seat to get food. To say I am superstitious in regards to the game would no doubt be an understatement. Let’s just say I have my reasons, which mainly revolve around predicting Aaron Boone’s home run against the Red Sox in the 2003 ALCS three-hours before the game was played. This is indeed a fact by the way, something almost spoke to me that day literally that made me look at my best friend at the time and say, “Aaron Boone is going to Bucky Dent them, I’ve seen it.” I also blamed the 2004 collapse on a New York Yankees game bat I own being moved and Jason Varitek electing to bat right-handed against a right-handed pitcher despite being a switch hitter, so maybe I am a bit off after all. Nonetheless, when it comes to certain aspects of my religion of choice, I don’t play around with the more “supernatural’ aspects of it.
Which is perhaps why, I spent those two hours and twenty-two minutes of game time seated comfortably with out a word being said, an empty stomach, taking photos in the same manner I did at the start of the game, and cringing every time the young boy behind me mentioned to his mother, “there’s a no-hitter going, Mom.” Everybody knows, you don’t talk about it, well everyone but this kid. And of course, I couldn’t say anything to him, I hadn’t spoken all game, right?
Oh well, true believer or not, the game, its players, and fans have their various quirks, beliefs, and obsessive compulsive behavioral traits. I suppose that’s what makes it so perfect and beautiful to me. Its numbers, ability to be infinite, the opportunity for perfection, the success of seventy percent failure, the display of domination, the tradition and history of the game both horrid and beautiful. As a future educator, I have even gone so far at times to build entire educational thematic units around the game with mathematics, history, science, it’s almost impossible to find a subject matter not comparable to the game of baseball. And on July 27th, 2011, it was nearly impossible to find a time comparable as a fan, when everything seemed to make sense. Nothing became something. Zero hits plus a sunny summer afternoon equaled one hundred percent joy. The result of such equation for me had long been lost. It was a good way to feel again and the realization hit me. I had to complete this. I had to see all of them. I had to see this through to the end, no matter how long it took. From Single-A to MLB to all the way to the Tokyo Dome in Japan, I would see the world again, and the game would be the map to guide me.
Until next time…
A Tale of Two Sports Cities – Pirates, Pilgrimages, & Places You Call Home
- Stop me if you’ve heard this one. Two lifelong friends and baseball fans in their old age were discussing the game and one man asked the question whether or not the other thought there was baseball in heaven. After a short debate on the subject, the two men made an agreement that whomever died first would somehow find a way to tell the other the answer to the question.
- A short time thereafter, one of the two friends died and after several weeks he as promised returned as an image to his friend with the answer to their quandary.
- “Bob, it’s me your old pal Bill. I have good news from the grave. There is baseball in heaven. In fact, we play everyday. But I have some bad news.”
- Bob replied, “What could possibly be the bad news?”
- “You’re scheduled to pitch Monday.”
On July 1st, 2011 I’d been perusing the internet looking at team schedules for various baseball teams at both the major and minor levels when I realized that I had yet to check the mailbox after arriving home from work. I had my ticket for the July 20th game between the Pittsburgh Pirates v. Cincinnati Reds at PNC Park in Pittsburgh sent via mail when I placed my order two days earlier and the giant child in me had the notion that it would actually arrive ever so quickly. Of course, he was wrong. However, what did arrive was perhaps the most wild and simultaneously great idea I’d had since deciding to venture down to that sunny place for shady people known as Tampa, Florida for MLB spring training – I was going to attempt to attend two games in two separate venues in two separate cities in the same day. And immediately purchased a ticket to a game at one of my least favorite venues, Huntington Park in Columbus, Ohio for a game between the visiting Scranton Wilkes-Barre Yankees and the Columbus Clippers to be played on the same night as my journey to PNC Park.
7:20 p.m.
To: Zack Taylor
Text: 2 games in one day…2 different cities…your opinion?
Apparently my best friend Zack was not overwhelmed nor surprised by such a stunt, which I imagine is why there was lack of response until I actually set out on the trek a mere nineteen days later. His words of wisdom – “Good luck. Watch out for deer, indians, and fat annoying Steelers fans.” – Amen, to that.
The trip to visit PNC Park in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania almost became the third straight planned stadium visit that didn’t happen in the month of July due to some trouble with my mode of transportation I affectionately refer to as “Supernova”. I call my Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo this due the fact it has well over 150,000 miles on it and all major and minor maintenance has historically been performed by myself or my brother, which makes me trust the vehicle more than some people, but also why it could blow at anytime – like a supernova.
On the fourth of July, I was supposed to be at the Yankees at Indians game in Cleveland, Ohio which didn’t happen due to a departure time dispute. On Monday the eighteenth, I was on my way to Charleston, West Virginia to see the West Virgina Power play the New York Yankees minor league affiliate Charleston (SC) River Dogs at Appalachia Power Park when my “trusty” vehicle decided to overheat and leave me out a nine dollar ticket behind home plate, a sixty dollar water pump, and a six-dollar thermostat. My planned baseball stadium tour for the summer on my off days had begun more like a new incarnation of Guns N’ Roses tour with many squabbles and technical difficulties and ultimately no shows. So it was very important to me to not make a third straight failed attempt, especially since I’d never done anything like this regarding baseball road trips. Sure, I’d gone to two games in the same day while in Florida for 2011 MLB Spring Training, but a drive to Lakeland or Clearwater from Tampa, Florida is a stroll down the street compared to something this many miles apart. Also, I wasn’t even something I’d considered at any other point in my baseball fanatical existence, but when you’re filling voids, have time and money to waste, why not?
Nonetheless, I departed for Pittsburgh around 7:15 a.m. on the morning of the 20th with two tickets, a full tank of gas, thirty dollars in cash, a camera, and running on the pursuit of seeing a venue I’d yet to see and no sleep for two days. I’d not been sleeping well due to the time of year it is in regards to my past and I’d not been to the Steel City since around 2003 when I went there to audition for an acting gig and received little more than one of the biggest scares of my life when while en route a truck ahead of me pulling a trailer had said trailer detach and come all too close to crashing into me and my trusty automobile. But that’s another story for another time.
Supernova a.k.a. my Jeep not game ready...
My GPS which I refer to as “Marcia”, another sidebar we wont delve into at this juncture, plotted my course to Pittsburgh somewhat differently than my previous venture from my tiny town in Southeastern Ohio. My last such journey lead me through West Virginia through the majority of my trip and quite frankly, despite my need to visit the West Virginia Power, I try to avoid driving in that state at all costs. This is due to one too many night drives down two lane highways in the snow, dodging deer, speed demon tractor-trailer drivers, and the often seen one head light motorist just across the river from Ohio on West Virgina’s portion of Route 35 at various points in my past. Instead this time, I was diverted toward Columbus, Ohio initially and quite fittingly, since I would be returning there later in the day.
There’s an absolute calm that overtakes me on the road, much like that when I’m alone among tens of thousands of total strangers/my closest friends at any given ball park. While within the confines of a stadium it’s a combination of childlike excitement, the feeling of discovery of new sites and old familiar sounds and smells, and a zeal meets zen. On the highway however, it’s a locked-in feeling and rhythm between myself and my vehicle. A calm within the chaos of other motorists moving in the gasoline charged dance between stop-and-go rush hour and en route to stadium traffic of the major cities I pass through and that of the open highway and its 70 miles per hour waltz from home to home plate and back again, all along the way juggling coffees and cans of Copenhagen, scanning talk radio stations, and carrying on conversations in my mind on what exits to take, gas stops, and remembering. And sometimes, trying to forget.
I arrived in Pittsburgh at around 11:30 a.m. and if there was any negative aspect of my journey to PNC Park, this would be when it occurred. My plan was to utilize one of the various parking garages in the downtown area and simply walk across the bridge to the stadium due to the fact that despite it being quite hot, it was a wonderful summer day for an afternoon game. Unfortunately, I was not the only motorist with such hopes and the massive amount of game day traffic kept me in my vehicle for approximately an hour and a half longer than I expected. But after a great deal of jockeying for position among the other drivers, a self guided tour of the downtown area, and a couple of gallons of sweat and gas later, I was able to find parking at a lot a short walk from the park for only ten dollars. Which would lead me to suggest if you’re planning to visit PNC Park, you may want to arrive earlier than an hour before first pitch. Especially when they’re facing off against a division rival and unexpectedly threatening to make a run for the NL Central Division lead, as was the case on this day.
PNC PARK - Home of the Pittsburgh Pirates
ESPN Page 2 once rated PNC Park as number one out of all thirty ballparks in Major League Baseball and I knew this going in. However, time will tell whether I place it on such a level as other places I’ve visited and have yet to journey to. It is hard dispute the majesty and beauty of the sight lines I had from my seat just behind the visiting Reds dugout in Section 10 Row J Seat 1. Due to the previously mentioned game day gridlock, I arrived in my seat at the top of the third inning with Cincinnati leading 2-0 and Reds pitcher Johnny Cueto firing pitches in toward Pirates hitters.
An unfortunate attribute of visiting a baseball cathedral for the first time I’ve noticed, especially when joining the game mid-action is the difficult choice of attempting to initially absorb the essence of the structural surroundings or follow the flow of the action on the field. The temptation to be whisked away by the on-field play left me conflicted due to my desire to photograph and become aware of my surroundings. From where I was seated, the entire venue was an open view to the players on the field and the picturesque backdrop of the city just beyond the outfield. However, getting caught daydreaming with a camera at one’s face was a bad place to be so close to field level, especially anytime a right-handed hitter stepped into the batter’s box.
I had made a similar mistake a few months earlier at Bright House Field in Clearwater, Florida. During pre-game batting practice of the March 12th game between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Philadelphia Phillies, I decided to do a good deed for a young couple while standing in right field having stopped there momentarily while on a trip around the park before the start of the game. My seat was just up the first base line Section 103 Row 19, however I left it long enough to get better acquainted with the place to be asked by a man and woman to take their picture standing on the right field terrace. There’s a saying in baseball, that sometimes the ball finds you, and on that day it most certainly did as I had a strange couples camera closely drawn to my face a batted ball off the bat of a still unknown to me Rays player ricocheted off of my left thigh making a sound that sounded like a gunshot and if not for the cheap sunglasses in my pocket may have had me singing soprano for the remainder of my days. For those of you who long to hear the “Oooh” or “Wooh” of a crowd, this is by no means the way to do so, trust me. And much like the tightly wound and stitched leather-clad baseball was unforgiving when it left its mark on my leg, Phillies fan is too, so no souvenir aside from the bruise and the verbal exchange with stadium security to assure them I did not require medical attention was had that day.
But where was I, yes, photography and foul balls, views from the dugout field level seats, pierogies, and slow roasting on a July afternoon on the aisle seat. With no dog in the fight on the field, the draw for me was the venue itself, which is why by the seventh inning it was easy for me to abandon my role as spectator and begin to stroll around the park to see what else there was to offer aside from the game itself.
Opening in 2001, the ten-year old park is one of eighteen current Major League Baseball stadiums designed by architectural firm Populous. I bring up this fact because, along with its riverside location, aspects of the park reminded me a great deal of Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati. The large scoreboard located in left field, seating proximity to the field and lack of foul territory, and the downtown area, are just a short list of similarities that made me curious to how other parks I’ve yet to see compare. However, these similarities are not to be viewed as though the stadiums have a cookie cutter approach or experience. The small number of right field/absence of an upper deck seating in right field and the cut outs which give view to a beautiful skyline. Perhaps the most significant and largest draw for me personally was the monuments located throughout various locations of the park, particularly that of Roberto Clemente just beyond the center field fan entrance into the stadium.
I concluded my lap around the stadium before games end but rather than return to my seat for the finale I instead chose to begin my trek toward Columbus, Ohio for the second game of my adventure. As I made my way from the left field concourse toward the front of the stadium, the emotions of what I had recently chosen to undertake seemed to register inside. Upon reaching the front entrance, I stepped on the escalator that a few hours earlier had lifted me into the confines of PNC and descended back to the street and in a sense back from Heaven to Earth. I expressed my approval of the baseball cathedral at 115 Federal Street to the stadium employees who stood at the gate telling them it was a beautiful park, stopped momentarily to take a few photos of the Honus Wagner monument on the sidewalk and then made my way back towards my car.
Along the route there were vendors on the street peddling dollar bottles of water that were much-needed on this sweltering July day and five dollar Pirates t-shirts. I picked up a bottle of water and continued to walk, however it was not for me, but the homeless man who’d been there when I’d entered. I handed him the bottle and carried on and at that moment it all washed over me, I began to weep behind my aviator style sunglasses, and thought of one word – home.
The place where I was heading next was obviously home to the Columbus Clippers, who were ironically hosting the AAA affiliate of the team that once called Columbus their Triple-A home. The Yankees however left town at the end of the 2006 season and things have not personally been as joyous as a visiting fan since. The saving grace back then however once that occurred was that though the team affiliation had changed, the venue at the time was still Cooper Stadium. It was there I had been raised on live baseball and what I considered home in regards to the game. It was my first church where I went to heal my hurts. The site of my first game and to this day still, in all its flaws and glory, my favorite baseball venue.
Huntington Park is none of this to me. It is the proverbial stepmother who is 20 years younger than my father. The trendy place constructed in the arena district. The cleaner, more corporate, upscale place to be seen rather than to solely see a game and brainchild of Franklin County politicians. Oh, the politics of baseball. I wasn’t heading home in a baseball sense anymore than I was heading home in the manner which ultimately inspired this quest to visit various baseball venues back in March. I am in a baseball sense much like that man in Pittsburgh panhandling for spare change, I have no place to call my home. And from the moment I parked my car and made my way to will call to claim my ticket behind home plate and until I reached my seat the memories of what the Clippers once were in my heart and mind were ever-present.
HUNTINGTON PARK - HOME OF THE COLUMBUS CLIPPERS
Everything about the venue reminded me of why I’d only made the trip there one other time before. From the food served to the very different looking crowd in regards to socioecnomics and race, there was no appeal to the visit other than watching potential future New York Yankees players on the visiting team and to take a few photographs. The only familiar face from those days was that of Nick Johnson who had once played across town and was now a member of the Clippers as part of the Cleveland Indians organization.. Just as in Pittsburgh earlier in the day, I’d joined the game following first pitch and spent my time behind the netting behind home snapping photos of the likes of Jesus Montero until the fatigue of the heat and miles caught up with me and I left before game’s end.
When I reached the outside of the stadium a police officer and I struck up a conversation as I waited for the signal to change to cross the street. She asked if I enjoyed the game and I replied yes, but I didn’t care too much for the new stadium and much preferred the old. She replied by discussing its location in the arena district and I laughed. She then asked how I was doing this evening and I went on to reply by telling her I’d just spent the day driving and still had ninety miles to go before I could call it a day. Her response was well then we should probably get you home. She then headed toward the middle of the street and began stopping traffic for which I thanked her and crossed.
I chose to head home via High Street en route to Route 23. South High Street, much like the old stadium, was also once a very important part of my youth and often the first stop upon returning home on leave from the military to visit my very old and very Irish great-grandmother Lula. I loved passing the old rugged brick home there which was quite the transition from the slick and and brightly decorated area of town I’d just been to. It too was once a home away from home and adding greatly to what had seemingly become the theme of this days journey.
The objective of the game of baseball is to reach the 216 square inch house shaped plate more than the other team. The entire start of all of this roaming was being exiled from the place I called home. And on the this day, while on the road and in the stands I often asked myself, where does one who feels as though he has no home go? The cathedral on Mound Street has been closed down since 2008. There is no emotional connection with the regional and local professional and minor league baseball teams for me. Hell, even my sister’s collegiate career as a softball player is over. So where does one go, to find their home? Seems the answer is anywhere and everywhere.
Until next time…
Ray Kinsella Was A Terrible Farmer…
….and Heaven definitely isn’t a corn field in Iowa. Heaven is everyone I’ve ever loved at a game that goes into infinite extra-innings. We all get perfect tans and foul balls.
And here’s a bit of homework and tease for the upcoming writing entry….
If you don’t know who this is, you know nothing about sports or charity.
Until next time…
The Quest For Happy & Why The Fourth of July Would Be A Good Day To Die
I am by no means one who is qualified to dole out advice, but upon reading a message received from a friend of mine with the statement “right now I’m trying to figure out what to do to make me happy again” it compels me to ponder just what brought about these occasional rants and raves and recounts of various baseball/sports experiences that I affectionately call the Diary Of A Mad Fan.
The quest for happy is as individual a pursuit as standing in the batter’s box and facing down a 95 mph pitch in search of a milestone, say like 3000 hits. Last week, I had the hopes of seeing such a feat in Cincinnati, Ohio during the June 22nd game between the New York Yankees and the Cincinnati Reds. However, Derek Jeter’s calf injury eight days prior made that an impossibility and if I had a very different outlook on life, the disappointment of instead watching an afternoon affair featuring mostly Yankees back-up players would’ve made for a less than memorable day. However, I’m not a glass is half empty guy, more of a what’s in the glass that counts, so the 4-2 Yankees win thanks to a Jorge Posada 2-run home run to right field was just as fulfilling as say witnessing baseball history, and that is seeing the first Yankees player ever to reach the 3000 hit milestone.
The game is, was, and always will be my solace, my house of refuge, the arms that wrap around me to comfort. It’s the happy thought I use to fly. Some folks don’t understand my obsession and religious zealotry for the game, but it is that indeed. 4256, 755, *762, 1406, 2632 are my John 3:16 and Psalm 23. The cardboard placed in protective sleeves in rows of three, nine per page, in three-ring binders are my photo albums. The stubs and printed out tickets my documentation of being in that moment, on that particular day in history where I sat with thousands of my kind watching history be made into a box score and a place in the standings.
I have spent a great deal of time at baseball parks this year. More perhaps than any year before, aside from the days of making the drive to Cooper Stadium in Columbus, Ohio when the Clippers were affiliated with the Bronx Bombers. Of course, those days are gone. And while the drives are a bit longer and the games feature more often than not MLB teams than as were the days watching the minor leaguers, it’s still where I go to heal my hurts and smile, win, lose, rain or shine.
In the past, I’ve gone with family, friends, on dates. Nowadays, I prefer to go alone, which has been the case for every game this year, aside from the upcoming July 4th meeting between the Yankees and the Cleveland Indians at Progressive Field and perhaps another shot at seeing Jeter’s 3000th hit. It’s become my individual pursuit, my happy place, it’s baseball and it always has been.
And that’s the point of this venture into the mind of a baseball junkie tonight. My piece of advice, you don’t have to “find” what makes you happy, more often than not, you’ve already done it, it’s not so much of a search or quest as it is remembering.
Until next time…
Confessions Of A Voyeuristic Baseball Fetishist, Home Run Viagra, & 5-Hour Girl-on-Girl Marathon Sessions
I had planned on spending my day watching the OU-C Hilltoppers Womens Softball team take on Wright State-Lake, but the combination of the poor attitude of the OUCH’s at times diva-like right fielder and the rain outside changed all that. My last venture to one of my sibling’s games was the season opener on March 31st, which saw me wrapped up in a blanket, wearing a ski jacket and stocking cap for a night double dip, all the while receiving text and picture messages from Dr. O’Malley in sunny Florida. It turned out to be a 5-hour two game sweep over Ohio Christian and a brush with frostbite. Perhaps it was the temperatures from that night that rattled my brain and inspired this recent writing session and its subject matter. Or maybe it was the fact I was the lone fan who was stupid enough to sit out in the cold next to the dugout and all that estrogen that gave me the idea. Nonetheless, that night I noticed a few things about that which occurs on the diamond I’d not thought of or considered putting into words for public consumption – until now.
Baseball exudes sexuality. Its facets suited not only for the sport but that which may be found anywhere from sex shops to truck stops, bedrooms to brothels, websites to strip clubs and various other sin dens. We’ve all have at some point in our lives either heard or used the phrases first, second, third base and home run in the context of baseball and sex. But I’ve come to notice either by my own depravity and perversions or just by the sheer observation of the many similarities between, that the game contains a far greater element of kink and coinciding content in relation to the art of carnal knowledge.
Looking past the surface and the sophomoric play on words regarding bases in respect to sexual contact and conduct, the sport contains more than a few intricacies which fit not only on the diamond but perfectly as the subject of a session with a therapist, the ultimate fantasy for fetishists, or perhaps simply the search engine topics of late night dwellers who frolic on the information superhighway to get their rocks off. Yes my dear reader, baseball has a dark pyschological side rarely noticed due to its often virginal and pure public and historical portrayals in writing and in film. Hold on to your hats , because unlike in previous posts here at Diary Of A Mad Fan, we’re covering the topic of baseball in a different light.
Like many who write on the subject of baseball, I have often done so with a flair for the conservative Americana point of view, depicting the game as a religion or the banner of all that is wholesome. But face it, the truth is the sport is far from that overall. From gambling controversies and the racial divide to the issue of steroids, baseball has throughout its inception been wrought with a darker side that is quite often overlooked in the majority of artistic depictions. However, I’ve come to realize that fanaticism gives way to seeing the game not only as holiest of holy religions created by a mythical yet mortal man in the form of Abner Doubleday, handed down by a god, played by saints, and followed by mere mortals, but the baseball fanatic and portions of the game itself as fetishism. A subject matter which is the topic to those who seek arousal via their voyeuristic tendencies, memorabilia collectors who long for materials worn by those players who they obsess over, fans who gain pleasure from the suffering of constant pain or dominance. Yes indeed, baseball is not just a house of worship but one of ill repute.
For instance, the main instruments in the game alone are phallic in nature. A long shaft and balls. Players don leather and strap on various other equipment for protection. Some wear masks and some even need performance enhancers in order to maintain their performances, such as they did at younger ages. Men often take on men. Women often take on women. And sometimes you may even see gatherings in public where the two intermingle in orgies on summer afternoons and evenings. Voyeurs watch and gain delight from the hours of action, watching the participants score gaining intense pleasure as they do so.
Think I’m a bit out there or it seems like a bit of a stretch as a way to perhaps write for writing’s sake? Let’s take a quick gander into the industry of baseball in comparison to the sex industry in various forms. My dear friend Madison, who works in “the industry” recently shared a story with me involving a night at a gentlemen’s club where she made $700 in several minutes from a shall we say “fan” who enjoyed “collecting memorabilia”. The man paid her $700 for a sock ladies and gentlemen and was willing to go even deeper into his wallet for “other” materials. Disturbing is it not? Absolutely. Especially knowing the further details of the story I’d say the gentleman patron was far from the normal clientele. Consider this however, is this really all that different from what one might find performing a quick internet search on the topic of game used equipment or memorabilia via a dealer or a site such as eBay?
And I speak from experience here folks, as even at the moment I am writing this I am within a few short strides from a catcher’s mask, a bat, and balls purchased or acquired solely based on the fact they were once worn, touched, or used by a Major League Baseball player. Granted, I’m not looking to “make love” to my New York Yankees game used bat as our trusty foot fan stated he was going to, but it’s not a stretch to say that I too gain great pleasure from these material items and paid good money to have them. So deep down we’re all freaks in respect to something.
And the depraved lot is not barred simply to the stands or dimly light back rooms of the local strip club. No, we can find them in uniform taking the field as well. Like a late night infomercial promising longer lasting and better performances players have been using the power of modern medicine for longer careers and bigger gains in the gym, on the field, and in their wallets. The Steroids Era and the home runs that came as a result were the virtual Viagra the game needed to recover from the flaccid attendance and ratings that were a result of the strike of 1994. Unfortunately,these small dosages created some side effects that have lasted long beyond 4 hours that led to Congress and courtrooms coast to coast and are still all over sports publications and programming. The verdict will soon be out on Barry Bonds due to his perjury trail regarding steroid usage and his association with Victor Conte’s BALCO labs. And less than 24-hours ago another false idol was exposed in Manny Ramirez. The enhancers have made the days and nights on the diamond memorable indeed, but the side effects have done much damage to the heart of the fan. Quite a trade-off. With great pleasure comes the morning after, filled with more guilt and vacant feelings and bitter tastes in the mouth than a one-night stand.
Ramirez is not the last, but the latest. The next great name comes in the form of a player who was considered to be one of the greatest of all-time – Roger Clemens, soon to have his day in court.
Quite a strange position we find ourselves in as fans. Of course positions are an important part of any baseball game and obviously a well-played roll in the sack. The psychology of how a player plays his role on the field is perhaps no different to how one would role play. For instance there’s nothing more extreme in regards to the game as pitching, A role played most often and most effectively by a dominant individual deriving pleasure and notoriety by inflicting their will over batters. Pitchers are a sadistic lot. And many of the true greats are more dominating and controlling than the best leather clad woman with a few chips dips chains and whips money can buy. They control the flow of a game through their acts, faster, slower, harder, take a little off when needed to overpower those who are submissive. There’s a vast area of psychology in regards to pitching and one can even turn to extreme sadism by means of choosing to aim the projectile at someone intentionally.
Roger Clemens was both a baseball god and master sadist of the modern era. During his days on the mound he was a mixture of Drysdale, Gibson, the Marquis de Sade, and Vlad the Impaler. However, he became over indulgent, needing help to reach the heights he had as a young man. Allegedly enhancing his performance as a means to reach the climax of Cy Young and World Series championship seasons. And while we await his day in court, it’s not hard to realize that as many other instances over the past several seasons, we are discovering that we the fans have been stretched out on the rack and what we have bore witness to is never to be spoken of again – at least not in terms of the Hall of Fame.
The recent headlines regarding Bonds, Clemens, and now Ramirez reminds us all that baseball truly does have its share of depravity. The Steroids Era was baseball’s version of a live hardcore porn show. And being the voyeurs that we are, we loved it. Yet, like a peep-show fiend dropping quarters into the slot in order to raise the curtain, we the contingent of loyal fans watched with great pleasure and in awe of all we saw, until we became numb to the ever more present number of the game’s best who are regularly revealed as faker than the breasts on a porn star. In the early years, we did so with a sense of naivety to it all, we once reacted with great disdain and surprise. However, we’ve become like over sexed perverts chronically exposed to the pornography that is PEDs and we react with far less interest. We are no longer excited by the extreme and we require more to achieve satisfaction. We have desensitized ourselves to the debauchery and no matter the name released in regards to enhancement nothing is shocking.
Bucket Lists: Grocery Shopping For The Living Dead, The End Of Madness, & Reasons Jessie Ledbetter Is Not A Colorado Rockies Fan
This is the prelude to the end of the Madness and quite possibly my current rash of gambling until the first Saturday in May – the second holiest day on my calendar behind Major League Baseball Opening Day. You can all have Christmas, it has never been all that great and for personal reasons unassociated with any religious debate, will until further notice serve as an unfriendly reminder of why nine out of ten people are garbage. Of course, my dream job has always been to be a garbage man. So it’s fitting perhaps that I’m up earlier than usual this morning taking out a little mental trash and preparing for more NCAA Basketball Tournament fallout.
The Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball will not be the house of worship anytime soon for my dear friend who is currently residing in Colorado under the alias Jessie Ledbetter. Obviously, her name has been changed to protect her identity due to crimes committed against me during a rugby match we attended in Wales where she stole a still undetermined number of french fries from me while her counterpart, and my former wife, who I will call Mallory, used her comedic powers to distract me. As Keith David said in the timeless classic Men At Work,” you never touch another man’s fries.” But I digress.
Jessie’s plight of having to sit in traffic due to the location of her place of work in relation to Coors Field has caused her much distress it seems and has made her hate the game of baseball. Obviously, there was a time in this country when such statements would be considered treasonous and call for her immediate deportation to one of the many baseball-free regions throughout the world, such as Siberia, Wrigley Field or PNC Park in Pittsburgh. Jabs at mediocre franchises and fond memories of Soviet Russia aside, my frustrated friend’s work day commute has reminded me of a topic that I hadn’t planned on writing about, but had crossed my mind during Opening Day telecasts this past Thursday, March 31, 2011 – making Opening Day of Major League Baseball a National Holiday.
For those of you not on proverbial permanent vacation such as myself, which comes usually as a result of placing myself in bad situations, randomness, borderline sociopathic tendencies, and a low tolerance for bullshit, this newly recognized holiday would mean one more much deserved day away from the work day grind. Whether you were a fan of the game or not, all Americans would be free from the tyranny of clock punching in order to take themselves out to the ballgame, if they so chose to do so. For those of you non-conformists who pray to the gods of the NFL, have no fear for we here at the Church would lobby equally for the Monday following your holiest of days, the Super Bowl, to be equally recognized.
Legislation for Opening Day as a holiday would require the festivities to never again begin outside of continental United States as MLB has done in previous seasons shipping teams to Japan to play regular season games. The exception however would be if the schedule placed an American based team against the Toronto Blue Jays to start its regular season games . Secondly, no two teams would play the night before as the single game to start the season as seen in years past. All teams would begin on the same day. Futhermore, no teams would be scheduled an off day the day following Opening Day, also a common and somewhat ridiculous occurrence in recent years.
Schedule makers would also be required to place teams from cold weather climates as the away team in warm weather climates to begin the season. However a clause in this portion of the law to list teams exempt and of exception on a bi-annual basis due to their historical significance with regards to the game. For example, the Cincinnati Reds would not only never begin the season on the road in a warm weather climate, but would be the first game started on every Opening Day. This is due to their place as the first professional team in the annals of the sport and a return to what was once common practice at the start of a Major League Baseball season. The New York Yankees, Boston Red Sox, Chicago Cubs, Detroit Tigers, and St. Louis Cardinals, would be permitted to start their seasons at home every other year due to their lengthy history. All other teams without domes or located in the southern and western portions of the United States would be required to start play in such a location.
Baseball’s popularity has suffered over the years, so to have someone I know make a statement of their hatred of the game comes as no surprise really. Jessie’s not alone. From strikes to steroids, complaints of high salaries by fans in a horrible national economy to the length of games in this instant gratification iPad world, the hatred goes beyond traffic jams in mountainous lands. So perhaps a bit of change wouldn’t hurt the games image, even if it’s something as simple as how and where the league begins the season – even if it’s just the dream of a baseball enthusiast preaching to the choir and via the internet in blog form.
Perhaps in our lifetimes, the past time will take its place once again as a more fan friendly, loved, and appreciated sport. Only time will tell. There are indeed many a thing folks want to do and see before they die, they’re called bucket lists. I personally have never had one, but whatever floats your boat. I think if your making a list and checking it twice of things you haven’t done yet that you’d like to do, you’re probably never going to do them. You don’t make lists you make it so. If you’re waiting to do things, but have no motion or emotion to support it, you’re already dead. The world’s full of zombies grocery shopping for a feast of sunshine and happy but lack the courage of their convictions. I’ve always wanted to wager and win on a Kentucky Derby winner. Be a solider. Learn to play an instrument. Teach a class. Date a model. Travel the world. Ride off into the sunset. Kiss the horse. Et cetera, et cetera. Been there, done all that. But what do I know? I was born with a silver shovel in my mouth. It’s also where I keep my foot from time to time. And I’m rambling again. It happens.
Moving on to The NCAA, and I’ll do this quickly as to avoid further long windedness, tonight I’m taking Butler over VCU along with Kentucky over UConn. VCU will finally turn back into the pumpkin and I’ve not yet learned my lesson regarding picking Kentucky – and thus far it’s not hurt me. Tonight we’ll see if Kentucky’s run and reign continues. I sure could use it.
Until next time….
Thursday’s Child Has Far To Go: Opening Day, The Paradigm Of Normalcy, & A Cold Dish Served To Go
The birth of a new year comes on a strange day here at the Church of The Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball. 2011 has already been weird, so why not odd it up some more by starting it on a Thursday, the first such occurence since 1976. Thirty-five years ago I too started my strange run, but I was born on a Sunday, which according to Mother Goose makes me bonny and blithe and good and gay. Of course, I had to look that all up and it seems I’m supposed to be attractive, cheerful and carefree, of high quality, and happy – I guess it depends who you ask, really.
I know nothing makes me more happy to see games that count for something on tap to be played from now until the fall across diamonds everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, Spring Training is a must see up close and personal expedition that should be taken by any member of the Church, but all in all it’s practice and the standings kept obviously mean little more than hope for the future. For as far back as I can remember I’ve made my preseason predictions, put them in writing and either posted them on a bulletin board in the pre-internet days or in some form via a Myspace blog or other electronic means in recent years for my own personal reasons/enjoyment to review at the end of the regular season to see how correct I was using only the way teams looked on paper prior to day one of the season. This season will obviously be no different. However, the exception will be that I will also be placing a small wager along side of it via my sports book. Why the hell not? I’ve rambled on recently about the other miniscule failed and successful attempts in this department in other sports here. So today I bring you my 2011 MLB Season Division picks with current odds to win their respective divisions.
NL East – Philladelphia Phillies (1/4)
NL Central – Cincinnati Reds (9/5)
NL West – San Francisco Giants (3/2)
NL Wild Card – Milwaukee Brewers – Off
AL East – Boston Red Sox (10/17)
AL Central – Minnesota Twins (8/5)
AL West – Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (14/5)
AL Wild Card – New York Yankees – Off
And there you have it. No long-winded explanations, just the picks, ma’am. I’ll save the pontificating in that regard for a later date as the baseball season is a long and winding road and I have more pressing things to discuss. For example how Wednesday’s child is full of woe indeed. From Cleveland to Portland and all around the NBA the worm turned more than its share tonight. I have felt the wrath of the favorite and the lack of clutch across the board tonight in the realm of small-time gambling. The momentum from Cleveland’s win over Lebron and the Miami Heat on Tuesday did not make the road trip to Charlotte as the team lost it late in a one-point game denying me an opportunity to play the role of profiting prophet at 41/10 odds. And it didn’t end there. Every single game I chose tonight with the exception of the Bulls returned only a giant scribbled letter “L” next to the scribbling of my choice in my tiny pocket notebook. I tempted the fates and watched as teams such as New Jersey at 63/10 and Golden State at 5/1 built leads early only to fold like cheap suits in the second half. The dogs would not hunt and I am left with only the promise of more Madness and Thursday’s pitching probables to ponder.
The dogs have turned into my own personal hellhounds on my trail tonight. They sought revenge and it was served to me on a platter of missed free throws and a lack of spacing across the hardwood.
Revenge. Cleveland had it night before last. Does it change anything? Of course not, but it was truly interesting to watch. If only life imitated the art of athletics. What is best in life, Lebron? To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentations of their entourage when attempting to park in a restricted area for pregame shoot around. Imagine if this is how all problems in life were settled, the absolute beauty of it. Dethroning a former “king” by out playing him for 48 minutes. Sports has many an example even in recent years in this regard. Favre as a Viking returning to torch the Packers. Rickey Henderson breaking the all-time stolen bases record against the New York Yankees. Roger Clemens as a Blue Jay comes to mind. The “past his prime” pitcher who returned to Boston and dominated Red Sox hitters then stared wickedly toward the boxes at Fenway Park, saying nothing but telling his former bosses everything. Bad break ups in average everyday life would be so much more entertaining if rather than the various forms and manners in which they are handled in the modern-day detached text message, social networking world if they were dealt with as is in sports. I say folks skip the divorce lawyers and the sad songs and get to the high and inside chin music. A man can dream can’t he?
Ah, if only life were like baseball. Then again, for most of my adult life it has been. Thursday’s child will be born soon bringing the new year, with new hope, and what is normal and comforting. We will christen him and watch him develop into a full season with varying dramatic episodes and the expectation of seeing history made, milestones reached and champions crowned. From a cool spring day to a cold autumn night we will see familiar heroes, young and promising talents, old faces in new places, and marvel at a little piece of land, holy and hallowed and constant. Where there is a winner and a loser and failing seventy percent of the time is success and perfection is possible. Soon and very soon, he will come. We will rejoice and sing and stretch in the 7th inning and rest and rise and root, root, root and pray to the saints of the Church of The Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball from Boston to the Bay Area. Hallelujah. Amen.
Until next time…
The Walking Dead, Chalk Lines, & Collegiate Softball In Football Weather
I’ve been back in Ohio for less than 72 hours and I’m already questioning that decision and set to head back to the ball park tomorrow afternoon for a scrimmage between the Ohio University-Chillicothe softball team and if my memory serves me correctly Huntington High. My sister, who as I’ve mentioned in previous postings is a player for OU-C, informed me of the meeting and how she doesn’t particularly care for the match-ups between the team and those of the high school circuit. However, I think it’s a good thing. Hell, even the Major and Minor League clubs play college teams in spring training. For example, the Columbus Clippers have a game coming up versus the Ohio State Buckeyes baseball team I wouldn’t mind attending at Huntington Park in Columbus, Ohio. However, my disdain for Ohio State and the Cleveland Indians, the parent club of the Clippers since 2009, will more than likely make the decision not attend the game for me.
I think Ichiro Suzuki said it best when he said, “If I ever saw myself saying I was excited about going to Cleveland I’d punch myself in the face, because I’m lying.” Huntington Park is “Jacobs Field South” to me neither it nor the actual home of the Indians has been the root of fond memories in respect to baseball and the main reason for that is the fans I’ve encountering during trips north to watch the Yankees play at Progressive/Jacobs Field. No matter the final score of a regular season game between the Yankees and Indians at a game in Cleveland, it’s always fun to remind them the difference between the hot dogs at Cleveland Indians games and those at Yankee Stadium is that hot dogs are served on a regular basis after the first week of October in Yankee Stadium. But that’s another rant/writing session for another time.
Enough about baseball and hatred right now. Well maybe not the hatred. The madness of March is the subject at hand for now and the worm has turned on this first night of Sweet Sixteen match-ups. Two hours ago I looked like a genius getting in on UConn as an underdog and with a point spread of one along with taking Florida over BYU. However, the second wave of channel surfing between Duke and Arizona and Butler v. Wisconsin has brought me much weeping and gnashing of teeth. The Blue Devils need about three touchdowns to get back in their game with the Wildcats and that little team from Indiana is taking the Badgers out to the woodshed as well. Where’s Christian Laettner and Bobby Hurley when I need them? Hell, Ron Dayne for that matter. Then again, I suppose that’s what I get for betting against a team from Indiana in the game of basketball. It’s times like these where I literally think to myself never mind all my crackpot reading, research, and reasoning before placing my wagers – that’s just common sense. This is the NCAA Basketball tourney, not the Rose Bowl.
Which brings me to the topic of tomorrow night’s game between “The” Ohio State Buckeyes and the Kentucky Wildcats. The hatred versus the heart. Both factors which should have me avoiding placing any type of wager on the game at all. As I’ve mentioned, despite being born and raised in Ohio, I openly and honestly despise all things Ohio State. Well, minus Nick Swisher “The Pride of Parkersburg”. From the “Sweater Vest”, to the dotting of the “I”, to Archie Griffin and his Kroger commercials from days of old, I am often brought to great pain and discomfort by that which is associated with the Buckeyes. Most, if not all of this displeasure is brought about by the “loyal” fan base, or as I like to call them – “The We’s”.
If you’re from Ohio, you surely know one of the or many of “The We’s”. You may even be one, sadly. The “We” are going to beat Michigan. Or the “We” had a great season even with only one loss. Or perhaps, “We” have the best recruiting class. Yes, indeed there will surely be many of “The We’s” talking tomorrow about how “We” will beat Kentucky. “The We’s” who at last check none of which were listed on any roster I’ve read recently.
Please, if you are reading this and you ever hear me refer to the New York Yankees and say we you have my full permission to walk up behind me with a handgun and blow my brains out. There is nothing more annoying or ridiculous in my humble opinion than hearing a fan of a team refer to themself in this context. While I’m all for fanaticism, I feel there are rules which must be applied and followed. If sports fanaticism is a religion indeed, than let me play Moses and bring forth the Commandments. Quite honestly, I feel there are only one true group of “loyal” fans in the state of Ohio in respect to collegiate or professional sports. And if you’re a Cleveland Browns fan you can best believe I’m talking about you.
Ohio State’s road to a national title in basketball has indeed become somewhat easier it would seem with the ousting of a perennial powerhouse in Duke and a team that was able to defeat them in the regular season in Wisconsin. Kentucky should give them somewhat of a challenge that their two previous tournament games have lacked. However, my concern is for my own position when it comes to this game. While my residency has been primarily as a Ohioan during my humble existence on earth, the blood coursing through my veins is from a heritage based in the land of fast women and beautiful horses – the Bluegrass state of Kentucky. This is perhaps one of the reasons why year in and year out I stick a bit too long with the Wildcats and the Cardinals of Louisville when it comes to the depths of the NCAA Tournament. What can I say, I grew up in a household where the day of the Derby is on equal footing to other religious holidays as Christmas and Easter which is perhaps why blind faith plays a major role in my decisions to pencil in the teams for long tournament runs year in and out.
Loyalty can however be a fault, as many of you probably already know. This approach to Louisville in this year’s version of the tournament however may have served as the much-needed wake up call toward my classical conditioning with respect to wagering and bracketeering with the two most popular Kentucky based basketball teams. Pitino’s Cardinals have become the equivalent of a beautiful girl in an on again off again dysfunctional relationship around tournament time for me. The pretty face that keeps coming back into my life that I know good and well is setting me up for a major disappointment sooner than later, yet I fall for the flashy wardrobe, the memories of the one shining moment, and the history and visions of the ultimate glory every time knowing full well I’m bound to wake up to an early or unplanned exit.
Betting with your heart is irresponsible, irrational, and more often than not leaves an irritation similar to a rash of herpes left by the pretty girl allowed to waltz in and out of your bedroom every six months only to skip town one night, but I digress. The point here is heart and hatred are emotions and emotional responses that are better left out of any monetary decision. And while it’s easier said than done, the best approach for a game like Friday’s match-up between OSU and Kentucky is to do so wanting to come out being right and not solely for the cheddar cheese putting your money where your mouth is may very well land you.
That’s in a nutshell what a venture in sports wagering come March has to be about being right, the money is the gravy on the mashed potatoes. In life as well, the dollar dollar bills ya’ll with regards to decision-making have to be viewed as a bonus only, it can’t be the sole motivating factor. So while as of this moment Kentucky at 11/5 odds where a 100 dollars down will return you $220 the question is the draw more about making a quick buck or thinking the chalk talk is perhaps the best route to being correct come the witching hour on Saturday?
Perhaps the “We’s” will own the night and a trip to the Elite Eight. But many of the faithless thought George Mason was going to give them more than they bargained for. The heart, the hatred, and the increased bulge of the wallet has me leaning toward the Wildcats. However, this is not your father’s UK team, nor are the Buckeyes. It’s confusing and complicated as the Madness should be. I’m obviously unfit to make a pure pick in this one. Too many attachments and issues either way. Perhaps I’m best served to barricade myself out of sight of a television and away from all communication and internet service providing devices to avoid any folly associated with picking this game.
However, they’re coming to get me, Barbara. The virus of the madness has spread on an epic scale. The streets of the tri-state area will be clear come the approximate tip-off time of 9:45 p.m.. I’m staying glued to the television until the news comes that the threat has passed. The madness of March is a zombie outbreak indeed come to feast upon the brains and disposable income of this emotionally attached, fanatical, and depraved degenerate hoping to profit on the playoff format. The end is drawing ever more closer. Tonight, I just want to be right. I want to be somewhere familiar, where I know where the exits are and I want to be allowed to smoke.
The Gridlock of March Madness, Returning To The Scene Of A Crime, & Why Kenny Chesney Owes Me $20.
I found myself yesterday driving in a moving 100 car pile-up that I blamed on “the madness” of March that is known as the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. It was actually traffic for a Kenny Chesney concert at Raymond James Stadium, which forced me to park at some guys house across from George Steinbrenner Field and cost me $20 dollars when regular stadium parking is typically $10. So if you see Kenny Chesney, tell him he owes me money and that I enjoyed his ESPN 30 for 30 documentary.
I’m submerged in a virtual sports all you can eat buffet here in Tampa, where over the past week I’ve been in the backyard of the East Region schedule, the Tampa Bay Lightning v. Ottawa Senators, and of course New York Yankees spring training. Between these factors, the spring break crowd, general high traffic flow, and road construction that has popped up even in the short time I’ve been here, driving in this town has become the only negative part of the journey. Driving in Tampa has earned its place in my heart as both fun and inherently evil. Until recently, the phrase taking turns three-wide bumper to bumper at high speeds was something I only associated with the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series, that was until I began normal commutes from East Fowler to MLK Blvd. via I-275 South.
The madness is permeating from the highways to the broadcast booths. Even Greg Gumbel is struck with the woes of it, welcoming viewers to “ESPN” on the broadcast I was watching on CBS. It’s an outbreak that began on Thursday March 17th, which is why I like many others have quarantined myself indoors keeping updated on the results of games waiting for the virus to pass sometime in early April. Of course, I’ll be heading back to Ohio tomorrow which is a land full of people hoping that in a few short hours George Mason isn’t sporting the slipper much as they did in 2006, but it’s hard for even I the casual fan/gambler to see Ohio State not winning a virtual home game in Cleveland, Ohio against a team whose regular season schedule features nowhere near the amount of wins against current tournament teams as Ohio State can boast having. I also think the Buckeyes are too deep for George Mason in regards to their bench. And I’m not even a Buckeye fan, in fact I’d say it wouldn’t be a stretch to say I hate Ohio State. Just ask the guy who asked me about Jim Tressel during the recent Yankees and Twins game I attended.
Which is of course another topic for another time…
Lost in all the NCAA’s though is the NIT and I only bring it up because Kent State just paid me well on 9/5 odds with their win over Fairfield. The poor NIT is like the only child who got all the attention for years until its parents decided to have another kid who turned out to be way more attractive, smarter, and loved by millions. The NIT is Khloe Kardashian folks, making the NCAA tourney Kim. Which one would you rather be in, honestly? Perhaps that’s a bit crass, but face it, no one cares about Kent St., Virginia Tech, or any other team that may end up heading to Madison Square Garden and winning it all save the teams involved and the folks like myself needing a fix before the “real” games we’re wagering on start.
The actions everywhere if you’re looking for it right now. Hell, I could walk outside my room right now and get some “action” standing on Nebraska Ave, where the lovely Keegan, a new friend I’ve made here, told me she saw a prostitute get punched into the concrete of an underpass while walking with a man, during her drive over to visit me. That’s not any action I’m looking for obviously, I’m talking about the kind that comes with the tournament with respect to gambling which is why I feel the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament is one of the best sporting events known to man.
A basketball game in and of itself is much like auto racing for the casual fan, which is to say you only need to watch the final two minutes of either event in order to see what’s important. But what the tournament format provides in the way of gambling and online brackets and office pools is rooting interest and viewership that is incomparable to any other sporting event, aside from perhaps the Super Bowl or Kentucky Derby. I feel it’s safe to say that regarding these events for some viewers and passers-by it’s important who wins as long as the winner is them as they mark off their brackets game by game and round by round. I’ve never met anyone who is solely a college basketball fan for the sake basketball. Then again, I don’t get to Kentucky as much I’d like anymore.
I too used to be a bracketeer, for lack of a better term. But I’ve found that it’s far more enjoyable to watch the games when my wagers are done on individual game basis and not by trying to predict a sole champion from a field of teams over a tournament that takes nearly a month to play as if I were some Nostradamus of the hardwood. Which I am not by any means. It’s been far more profitable as well.
Such is life. In my experience it’s far better to live game to game and day-to-day than to attempt try to envision where you’re going to be standing a month from now. Take the single bracket I’ve filled out on ESPN.com for example, as of right now with several games remaining on today’s schedule, I’ve correctly picked only 32 of the 41 games played thus far in the tournament. That’s 78% and not bringing home any grand prize. But on the wagers I’ve made on teams for the straight- up win where fractional odds were available on an individual basis game to game and round to round I’m currently, 19-4 correctly picking 82% of the games.
Making money on the NCAA in the first few rounds is seemingly easy due to the chalk. It’s the same reason I occasionally bet major professional tennis tournaments. Tops seeds usually hold, it’s the later rounds where the research and the risk come in to play. Or perhaps the better word is the work. Anyone can fill out a bracket and win a few dollars in an office pool. There’s no talent or skill in it. It requires little more than a pen, pencil, or click of a mouse.
Live betting is just that lively. Anyone can fill out a bracket and accumulate enough points to make up for mistakes in the late rounds. Brackets provide a sense of security that single game bets don’t.
Much like the song played at the end of it all, single game wagering is “One Shining Moment”. You’re right or your wrong. You live and die by your choices. That’s not just sports or gambling, that’s life. It’s not meant to be prognosticated and picked out in stages, it’s day-to-day, game to game, filled with upsets, dominating performances, last second heartbreak and drives through the lane to victory.
The madness has arrived. Survive and advance. True, indeed.
Until next time…
A Sunny Place For Shady People: Baseball, Betting Favorites, & The Art of the Striptease/Shortstop Position
There’s a Salvador Dali museum not far from my current location. There’s also a place I’m referring to as my new favorite bar on the entire planet, which is where I spend my time when I’m not sealed up in my bunker located on Fowler Ave placing bets and replaying the events of the day over in my head. While both of these locations possess a masterpiece or two, the place I’ve experienced the most magnificent work of art is watching Derek Jeter play his position at George Steinbrenner Field.
Thus far, I’ve attended two Yankees games of the three Spring Training affairs I’ve had the pleasure of seeing. My first moments and game in Tampa I spent most of the time in awe and literally pulled in to the parking lot adjacent to Raymond James Stadium and Steinbrenner Field directly from my haul from Georgia where I stayed the night prior. I’ve been in Tampa for three days and while I’m already sunburned, road worn, dehydrated, undersexed, underfed, and overworked in respect to the various elements of this project, I’m loving every minute of it.
I’ve been hit by foul balls, found others in ponds outside of the practice fields at Steinbrenner Field, briefly interacted with players from past Yankees clubs, been lost, been found, made a new friend or two, and it’s only the first weekend. In fact, I didn’t even know what day of the week it was until earlier today. It’s like the film Groundhog Day, only it’s all good, I’m not driving angry, and I don’t have to wake up to Sonny & Cher. Although, the deejay at the club night before last announced that The Osmond’s band was coming in. Which made me have visions of Donnie Osmond receiving a private dance to the tune of One Bad Apple. What can I say, I’m a strange one. A little bit country a little bit rock n’ roll, but I digress.
More to the point, Derek Jeter has been at times called the most overrated short stop in Major League Baseball. Last season’s career lows in various hitting categories and an alleged decline in range in the field have many stating he is in the twilight of his career – which face it folks, he is – however, seeing Jeter work live and in person is still something to behold.
Despite my past love for the Columbus Clippers during the years of their affliation with the New York Yankees, I never had the pleasure of seeing Jeter play Triple-A baseball. In 1995, while Derek was making his way toward becoming a New York Yankees legend through the team’s minor league system, I was in Ft. Hood, TX beginning my journey toward what has become a life of finding myself in various locations at various times. While I’ve since seen him play with Yankees, it’s not until now during this recent version of running away from home that I’ve had the pleasure of doing so at an up close level to what I could only have imagined seeing him in the minors would have been all those years ago.
There’s a fluid motion the man has at the plate and in the field that one often sees on television. However, to see it live is indescribable. While I’m sure that some of you reading this are thinking that I’m just another brainwashed Yankees fan gushing over the franschise player in blog form, but brother let me tell you, Jeter is everything he appears to be via satellite feed. Even as he dropped a routine pop up in the sun during the game versus Minnesota everything the man did was pure, poetic, well-played, and professional, yet playful. But don’t be fooled, Jeter’s a killer. An assassin with swagger and you can see it. While some look at this artful athlete and his numbers and say that perhaps the Mona Lisa is falling apart, it’s apparent that the approach that’s been seen on highlight reels since 1996 is still same as it ever was. The objective is unchanged and while many believe that the colors are fading a bit, the work of art that is Derek Jeter’s legacy as a Yankees player is yet to be a completed piece that will one day hang on display in Cooperstown. Boston may be the favorites this year in the AL EAST and having seen the line-up they’re planning to field daily up close it’s hard to say otherwise. However, seeing Jeter also makes one realize he too will have something to say about that.
Long-Term Relationships, Sacrilege, & The Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball
Don Mattingly is the root to all my fascination with the game of baseball as a religion and sports fanaticism in general. It’s a topic that I’ve starting diving into deeply recently in the writing I’m doing for this project known as “Diary Of A Mad Fan”, which chronicles my now 27 year relationship, passion for, and at times obsessive worship of the New York Yankees and the sport of baseball. For the next few weeks, the writings associated with this project will rely heavily upon the coming experiences that await during my escape from a broken heart and journey to Grapefruit League Spring Training for a two week period. and I will delve into this subject in a few paragraphs. As for now, let’s talk “Donnie Baseball”.
Seeing Mattingly sporting his #8 Los Angeles Dodgers uniform and performing his duties as the skipper of the Los Angeles Dodgers during a televised game between the Cubs and Dodgers recently on WGN brought mixed emotions from this long-time fan of the former Yankees captain. While on the one hand, I’m excited to see what he is able to accomplish as a manager, it brings out deeper thoughts with regards to change.
For anyone who followed the career of the 1985 American League Most Valuable Player, the lack of a World Series championship to culminate his stellar career is an all too familiar tale. Moreover, his passing over as the New York Yankees mangerial choice following the departure of Joe Torre is to some degree even still a touchy subject. While it is debatable and impossible to know if Mattingly had been hired by the Yankees instead of Joe Girardi, the end result of the 2009 season would have been the team’s 27th World Series title, what’s not debatable is the images of Don Mattingly in any other uniform than that of the New York Yankees is still an odd sight to see.
For this fanatic, as I’m sure it is for a great deal of you reading this, there is something to be said for players who spend their entire career with one team. My journey south in a few short hours will provide me with the possible opportunity to see Albert Pujols play versus the Detroit Tigers on March 16th when the Cardinals visit Lakeland, Florida. Pujols’ contract status has made him the latest in a line of “the face of a franchise” players over the past few seasons who have publicly stood on the verge of what may very well be the final season with what has been his only team.
Players who remain with a single team for the duration of their entire career have of course become increasingly rare since the adoption of free agency. While free agency has not created an environment in which has every player at Matt Stairs level uniform changes, the number of players the likes of Mattingly, Tony Gwynn, Cal Ripken Jr., Craig Biggio, Barry Larkin, and George Brett remaining with a single club are becoming all the more a rarity.
While attending and writing about MLB Spring Training, I will be spending the bulk of my stay in Tampa, Florida watching games at Steinbrenner Field, home of the New York Yankees who currently have three players in Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, and Jorge Posada who have played their entire careers calling the Bronx home, serving as the core of the Yankees’ most recent dynastic run.
A quick scan of rosters throughout the league as of today shows little in the way of a team that can boast to having any group of players remotely similar to these men, which is why the threat of Pujols leaving St. Louis seems all the more troubling to not only fans of the Cardinals, but the contigent of baseball purists that still exist. While an entire season will have to be played in order for fans of the game to know the answer to this rumored 300 million dollar question, what we do know is that the relationship between teams and players in the current era seem far less about legacy, loyalty, and love and more about landing record setting contractual agreements.
While fans may be inclined to give a different answer to the following statement, I’m sure if you were to ask any general manager across the league about “falling in love” with an individual player and they’d say it’s a crucial business mistake. Such approaches tend to give way to an inability to negotiate contracts or even make a trade that could very well improve a team’s chance of winning. I’m in no way saying that keeping a player like Pujols, or even trading him for that matter, would be a mistake that would put the Cardinals franchise into the realm of the Pittsburgh Pirates recent lack of success column in regards to wins and playoff appearances, but for the sake of Pujols’ place in respect to legacy and his place in the history of the game, seeing him “take his talents” anywhere but St. Louis would be considered sacrilege here at the Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball.
For example, despite all my years as a Yankees fan I’ve admired Atlanta Braves Third Basemen Chipper Jones a great deal, to a degree that of all the seemingly countless number of players acquired via free agency and trades the only player from another roster I’ve ever dreamed of playing for the Bombers who hasn’t is Jones. However, could anyone who has followed the game since Jones entered the league with Atlanta in the early 1990s imagine him in any other uniform besides the Braves?
Granted, baseball is a business and player movement and turnover is the nature of the beast. But in some respects, this is just another example of the game reflecting similar social norms outside of its confines. We see players throughout the league like business moving to various states based on income tax rates and not only their chances of winning titles or staying put out of an understanding of legacy and its impact. Public break-ups and squabbles over money that are more suited for divorce courts and celebrity tabloids than the lead in story on ESPN television programs. Relationships throughout the league are becoming more and more dysfunctional in the current financial climate, which seems to be trending away from the muli-year multi-million dollar deals as seen in the late 1990s and early 2000s. More and more faces of franchises across the league are being sent off for players to be named and for greener pastures, and what might be better somewhere else. While less and less seem prone to hanging in working it out or “doing it for the kids”.
One can only hope that Albert and St. Louis can reconcile. Trust me, I know the pain of losing your franchise player in the game of life. It’s not something you can ever replace.
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I’ve mentioned the phrase The Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball several times already in the two entries I’ve made thus far. And while you obviously won’t find a street address or phone listing for said establishment, it is a very real place in the wild wiring in the brain of yours’ truly.
I coined the phrase due to the fact I jokingly referred to my religion on Facebook as Major League Baseball. As I progress through this writing process I will go into much greater detail with respect to just how much of this statement is fact as oppossed to an attempt at comedy. The various baseball parks I’ve attended over the years have always been called, “my church where I heal my hurts” which is borrowed from a song by the musical group Faithless’ song “God Is A DJ”. Likewise, I’m a huge fan of the Rolling Stones and was also inspired to create the name thanks to lyrics from their song “Far Away Eyes”.
I grew up in a very religious household and have traveled throughout the world to some well-known relgious sites, most often that of the Catholic faith. While I am technically unaffliated, for lack of a better term, I have a great respect for the Catholic faith and the icons and tradition associated with it. So I feel I must add that, I mean no disrespect when writing such statements as my being “the Pope” of the Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball, or any statements or literary approaches which draw comparison to it or any other traditional religion that will be written by me and appear here.
As with any topic, I am only hoping to show its parallels between the game of baseball. So on that note, I hope you enjoy what is to come here at DOAMF.
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Looking over at the clock, I am now at the eve of my departure to Tampa, Florida. I have to close this out before I turn into a pumpkin. Besides there’s a saying that nothing good ever happens after midnight, I wouldn’t want to press my luck, I’m going to need all of it I can get for March Madness wagers and St. Patrick’s Day.
Until next time….
Throwing Like A Girl, The Disease of Ignorance, and The Local Sports Page
While I’m still six days away from the journey to Grapefruit League spring training on what I’m affectionately calling the Church of The Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball Revival Tour, the first official trip to the ballpark will be today to see one of my favorite all-time athletes begin her final season.
At approximately 3 p.m. this afternoon, Patsy Suzanne Jones will be taking right field for the Ohio University-Chillicothe Hilltoppers at VA Memorial Stadium in Chillicothe, Ohio against University of Cincinnati-Clermont. My last writing session at my previous blog location that centered on the subject of my sister’s collegiate athletic career was supposed to be a farewell send off as she had then stated that 2010 would be her final season in order to focus on her academics and preparations to graduate from OU-C with a degree in Deaf Studies. However, it would appear we’d both spoken to soon and with a year of eligibility left, she did her best Roger Clemens impersonation with regards to “retiring” and chose instead to come back for one more season.
Unlike her three previous seasons however, Suzie has faced obstacles off the field that almost made the decision to leave the game she has played since a child for her. The recent off-season saw her being plagued with nagging illnesses. Her normal off-season training sessions were often cut short due to her inability to perform tasks such as running without experiencing dangerously elevated heart rates, previously unseen levels of fatigue, and a decline in her general overall health. A series of hospital visits and medical screenings over a period of months were needed to diagnose her condition, which was finally discovered to be Graves Disease.
Graves Disease is the most common form of hyperthyroidism, occurring when a person’s autoimmune system attacks the thyroid gland. While it is rarely life-threatening, it can greatly affect the body in various aspects from a persons mood to physical appearance due to the overproduction of the hormone thyroxine.
While it may seem odd to some that the first official entry here at Diary Of A Mad Fan to discuss the medical condition of a family member it’s actually somewhat fitting in respect to the whole of Suzie’s life on the playing fields and speaks volumes with regard to women’s athletics. That is to say, quite like an unforseen medical condition womens collegiate athletics often go unnoticed until attention is brought to them by an outside element.
Despite the fact that the home field of the OU-C Hilltoppers is also the home to the Frontier League Chillicothe Paints, there will not be nearly the fanfare for the team one would see if they were perhaps men. These young ladies will not take the field to a packed house on their Opening Day despite fielding a team that has finished as high as third place and as runner-up in the ORCC Tournament in two of their last three seasons.
Whatever today’s outcome on the playing field in Chillicothe, there will be very few newspaper write-ups featuring box scores or sports webpage columns. Local “media” will provide far more insight into area high school sports than the game between OU-C and UC-C or any other local collegiate athletic stories or game results, men or women for that matter. In great respects, this is a bit disheartening as many folks are simply unaware to the true gems which are in the surrounding area of the hills of southeastern Ohio.
From the University or Rio Grande Mens Soccer team, which entered post season play last fall with an undefeated record to the various other non-major college programs and sports such as Ohio-University of Chillicothe, area colleges are fielding winning teams on a regular basis which go largely unnoticed by the football culture that is the southeastern Ohio region. While gender, the type of sport, and league and conference affiliations surely play a large role in the decisions for the area sports fan to follow local collegiate athletics, the lack of local media coverage and the way such teams are promoted to the general public must be noted.
The community and culture surrounding these small universities and colleges is one that seemingly embraces the idea that there is nothing beyond the numerous high school playing fields and courts within the corporation limits of the small towns that the region is composed of. For the area high school athlete that dreams of playing beyond the high school level and aspires to earn a college degree, there appears to be no means to or future for them beyond the confines of the local public school athletic teams.
It is my opinion, that more coverage of local athletic collegiate athletics could serve as a means to a greater awareness to the opportunities for local student athletes beyond the four years of high school sports. Ohio University-Chillicothe athletic teams are a great example of this as the young women who will take the field today are not scholarship athletes that were heavily recruited , but rather are walk-on athletes who truly play for the love of sport and the chance to continue doing something they enjoy beyond the years of their secondary school educations.
The attitude and culture of this area is often one that little opportunity exists here. That in order to reach a certain plateau or see a great deal more or have things in life one must leave the area upon graduating high school. However, it is my opinion that this is merely a result of ignorance to the real opportunities that are present. An ignorance that is due in part to the failure of those who are aware to promote and share with the members of the surrounding community. It’s very difficult for the young area athlete or fan to answer the door when opportunity knocks if they are unaware that it’s standing on the other side of the door.
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As for other rants and ramblings, my pilgrimage to Tampa, Dunedin, Lakeland, Ft. Myers, and Clearwater will coincide with the NCAA Mens Basketball Tournament and Tampa will be a site for second and third round games. Obviously the primary subject of this blog is baseball and the project I’m working on of the same name as its title, I will occasionally be throwing in my takes on other sports, social commentary, my life and experiences.
While I don’t follow basketball, or anything else for that matter, to the level that I do baseball, I am what you would say a small time gambler and the madness of March is a perfect time for folks like me. So I’m very excited to have the chance for the first time to be submerged a bit directly in the NCAA Basketball Tournament. At last check however, tickets to the games that weekend are in the range of $230 dollars and I’ve already filled the offering plate at the Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball with enough money to build that new extension the congregation has been praying for.
And I suppose my next entry should be to explain what in the hell all this religion and baseball talk is as I’m sure the casual reader is probably thinking I’m off my rocker. But until then, just know baseball is my religion, the park is my church, and I am a manic street preacher when it comes to the game, hoping to convert and save the souls of the masses who have turned away from the game. And with that, I need to get ready to attend this afternoon’s service between OU-Chillicothe and UC-Clermont. Let us now pray for many a run and very little a rain drop.
Until next time…
Diary Of A Mad Fan 