Chasing The Darkness, Rounding Third & Still Wanting To Just Go Home…
When I was a couple of decades younger than I am now, I used to spend a lot of time driving the back roads of this rural area I call the center of my spider’s web with a variety of combinations of friends and several packs of Camel filters. Often on these mini-adventures I’d mention how someday I’d hope to wake up just before sunrise and trade the back roads for the highway heading west and see just how far I could make it before the sun set. Be careful what you wish for children. That was eighteen years ago and I’ve been chasing the darkness ever since.
So fittingly, it’s just before the sunrise as I sit here pounding away on the keyboard far too many days removed from my previous writing session with western travel on my mind and 7 days in my way of being surrounded by the game of baseball.
The motivation that sent me on this quest has resurfaced as the winter weather gives way to the time of spring, when a man’s heart turns to love and the game, and frankly the love of the game. There’s a pounding in my chest tonight and that feeling remains just as it always did. That desire to go where one can when they can not go where they want. The need for familiarity in an unfamiliar place. A face in the crowd at peace among strangers. A face in a mind that still laughs, still smiles, still looks like it used to. The need for that breathless feeling that overtakes you when you walk in and the whole world opens up.
Voices of distress and the bark of the black dog of winter are replaced with the one that says, “spring will be here, soon.” and a whisper that softly speaks the phrase, “Go west, young man.”
Where have all the cowboys gone you ask? Riding off into the sunset, to kiss the horse and chase the darkness one more time. A pilgrimage in the Sonoran, to a baseball Mecca, a desert search for baseball Allah.
Friday March 9th
– Cleveland Indians @ Milwaukee Brewers – Maryvale Baseball Park – Phoenix, AZ
Saturday March 10th
– Texas Rangers @ Chicago White Sox – Camelback Ranch – Glendale, AZ
– Los Angeles Dodgers @ Chicago White Sox – Camelback Ranch – Glendale, AZ
Sunday March 11th – Texas Rangers v. Cleveland Indians – Surprise Stadium – Surprise, AZ
Monday March 12th – Texas Rangers @ Seattle Mariners – Peoria Sports Complex – Peoria, AZ
Tuesday March 13th
– Texas Rangers @ Cleveland Indians – Goodyear Ballpark – Goodyear, AZ
Wednesday March 14th
– Texas Rangers v. Colorado Rockies – Surprise Stadium – Surprise, AZ
– Los Angeles Dodgers @ Cincinnati Reds – Goodyear Ballpark – Goodyear, AZ
Thursday March 15th
– Texas Rangers v. Oakland Athletics – Surprise Stadium – Surprise, AZ
– San Francisco Giants @ Seattle Mariners – Peoria Sports Complex – Peoria, AZ
Friday March 16th
– Texas Rangers @ Los Angeles Dodgers – Camelback Ranch – Glendale, AZ
– Seattle Mariners @ Oakland Athletics – Phoenix Municipal Stadium – Phoenix, AZ
Saturday March 17th
– Los Angeles Dodgers @ Colorado Rockies – Salt River Field At Talking Stick – Scottsdale, AZ
– San Francisco Giants @ Los Angeles Dodgers – Camelback Ranch – Glendale, AZ
Terminal Blues On The Tarmac: Return Flights To The Dead Zone, Prayers For Hibernation, & Yu Darvish
Somewhere Over Texas - October 2011
The 2011 Major and Minor League Baseball seasons began and with it came the journey that has been chronicled here, and God willing will resume in March of 2012 and continue beyond until the hollowed grounds and cathedrals across the North American continent have all been journeyed to and within. This experience began as recovery process and has had its benefits and wonderful moments. The misdirected escape from the torment of loss and quest for a home without the love of a woman and child I once called mine, evolved into a highway directly to that which helped me remember rather than try to forget. Old familiar faces and places were passed through and visited and what were once objects of fantasy became common place. The places chosen transformed from mere dream to a reality as has happened with other hopes and dreams in other areas of my life during my brief history. Over the course of this experiment/experience every game became equally magnificent and the teams and stadiums visited were just as imagined and more. And upon completion of the season and my travels for the year, the recovery and rebirth process, the names of the cities, stadiums, and teams transformed from a to-do list to names being marked off like those on a hit list. From each place, small memorabilia were taken as if they were artifacts kept by a serial murder, only my victims were not made of blood and bone, but constructed of concrete and steel and the glory that is the game of baseball.
It may seem as though my life has been mired in waves of tragedy over the previous year. Lost love. Lost ways. Lost mind. A persona and ego sent to roam the earth devastated by hurt and the pain of departure, when in fact the reason I roam the earth, particularly the baseball cathedrals of North America is obviously due to the fact I was hurt and perhaps have hurt others in a way that in reality no distance or amount of innings, no-hitters, home runs, playoff experiences can ever truly heal.
So much of that journey sits waiting to be released for public consumption, yet I can’t seem to muster the desire to rehash all that negativity wrapped in the realm of baseball. However, for the sake of storytelling and continuity before my next adventure it’s only right I must. That said, 2012 cannot be solely based upon a life without. The musings can no longer be energized entirely by the matters of a broken heart, misplaced anger, and a moment of clarity first realized in its fullest upon the long drive home from the National League Division Game 2 in Milwaukee between the Arizona Diamondbacks and the Milwaukee Brewers. Such a journey must also encompass the love of the life on the road, in the park, around the game. And while true, I longed for a life with another, what I truly long for is a life with someone who understands the magic of this world around the game and across this country and the rest of the world I’ve come to know and is not afraid to see with me. There is a reason for all of this and deep down I know now and have for some time that it goes beyond the insults and abandonment of a love that was never true or the emptiness left when the final out of the season is recorded that is only filled when the warmth when spring rolls round. The point is, somethings firmly in grasps must eventually be let go in order to grab a hold on that which is within reach.
For a while during this long and cold dead zone without the game, I’ve often wondered what will be my direction, what will I clinch that is off in the distance? It seems that in all the waiting and wondering the answer appeared on its own in two forms. The first of which being that of Yu Darvish.
Twenty-four hours from now the world of professional baseball will know whether or not the Japanese pitching sensation will join the two-time defending American League champion Texas Rangers. And while the world waits, the preparations have been made in order to be a part of the potential frenzy surrounding his arrival at Spring Training in Surprise, Arizona. By tomorrow afternoon, I will know if the ten days worth of Texas Rangers tickets purchased for their upcoming spring games will have been purchased in a prophetic sense in what I’ve deemed my “Desert Search For Baseball Allah” in contrast to last seasons “The Church of the Sacred Bleeding Heart of Major League Baseball Tour” or simply an opportunity to motor west for time well spent with more minor gods of the game.
The second answer form, well, I guess you could say it’s a more noble tale and perhaps the one I should’ve never stopped telling in the first place. And on that note, I’ll close this round of madness, slip into the hibernation of the winter’s night smothered by the black dog (what I lovingly and commonly call the lack of baseball seasonal depression)and wait for word from the East via those in the Dallas/Fort Worth area.
Tonight I’ve come to terms with it all and I pray for snow, future flights to Phoenix and a ride with the devil, and Japanese pitching phenoms coming to terms with a 6th year club option.
Until next time…
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.
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…
Diary Of A Mad Fan 