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
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…
Diary Of A Mad Fan 