“If you can see skyscrapers over the outfield fence, that ain’t minor league baseball. That’s bullshit.”
So speaks Chester, and while I could never have phrased it in such poetic terms, he has in a sense read my mind.
I was just thinking that, however improbably, ridiculously named, Townsboro is nonetheless a perfect minor league city. We have gained early admittance for batting practice and fielding drills, long tosses in the outfield, exercises in which few locals take interest. And as the home team works out in some killer hot cocoa colored jerseys with mustard yellow lettering, paying tribute to their parent club’s best ever uniform – returned to at last after decades of painfully dull avoidance and denial – I lean against the left field fence and consider that while, true, I have attended a few countryside stadiums that were perfect in their prairie sweetness, these are dying out anyway and could never hold a candle to a setting such as this. Edge of a faded former half industrial, half farming town that enjoyed its apex thirty years ago and has been on the decline ever since, yet somehow counts a population that holds steady at ten grand with every census taken. Just guessing here, but yeah – I know the type.
I also happen to know a little bit about what minor league baseball is like elsewhere. Charlotte for example features a sparkly and attractive new stadium that has no soul, probably owing to the condition Chester obliquely referenced, i.e. its unfortunate placement smack dab in a modern metropolis’s downtown. Call me crazy but the high rise condos throwing shadows on left field are bad enough, and the cranes jabbing at models still under construction across the street even worse. And yet sadly, this slick empty shell of a stadium is held up as the shining template all others must emulate. From Memphis to Reno and most points in between (including pretty much the entirety of the Texas League), faux old school behemoths constructed this century with an intentionally distressed look are all the rage, so long as the business class can stroll three blocks to the game, unfortunate diehard fanatics can pay through the nose for limited city parking – most teams don’t even bother with their own lot any more – and upon arrival, a craft beer and hot dog can set you back as much or more than their big league counterparts.
But let these places rot! Let charm instead settle into the faults like arthritis and bone spurs, let the asphalt crack around them! And yet…I realize that those supporting such an enterprise are not conducting a charity. The purist in me might despise these sweeping trends, even while allowing that they could represent a necessary evil, that minor league baseball might dry up otherwise. It just sucks, is all, and recognizing this reality allows one to appreciate these cobbled together leagues all the more.
So we shall admire this fine stadium, in all its slipshod glory. Like the outfield’s chain link fence, nearly every square inch coated by a local business’s aluminum placard. And while we’re at it, a moment of consideration for these players as well, representing as they do the blank faces of our vague untapped potential, the bodies we just know we could have occupied when we were their age if we’d only had the free time and applied ourselves. Is that not all that separates them from us, and by extension defines our interest in the sport as well? The knowledge that we too held the potential, it only came down to a matter of calling.
Before I get carried away by the force of these feverish ruminations, though, observations of a much more quotidian nature grab my attention, unexpectedly, almost against my will. It’s as if the fanciful quadrants of my mind don’t wish to be ripped from such pleasant, pastoral daydreams concerning the enduring myths of summer. But no, a figure I spot stretching on the sidelines does jar me from such reveries, a tallish not-quite-young beanpole in round John Lennon glasses and shaggy brown hair, matching sideburns. It does seem somewhat improbable that I would know anything about a ballplayer at Class A, much less one for the San Diego Padres’ system, but this sensation persists, and my eyes drill in on the subject. Improbable but not impossible, and as this cat laughs at something one of his squad mates says along the left field foul line, I’m consulting the free program handed out upon admittance, to no avail, finding this character nowhere within its contents. And yet rather than deterring me, his absence only confirms my suspicions, that this is surely a rehabbing big leaguer on loan for just a few days, that furthermore I have seen this fellow pitch in person.
Pitch, yes – absolutely. Something about this notion rings true, that this guy is customarily a seventh or eighth inning guy for the Padres. A left handed specialist, if I’m not mistaken, often called upon to retire a single batter. And I should know this person, who might have even possibly found himself named to an All-Star game if I’m not mistaken, somewhere along the way. Granted, this honor likely traced itself to the rule requiring at least one player selected from every team, a real head scratcher for whomever the manager had been that year when it came to picking someone from the Dads.
I’ve pulled out my phone, am in the process of looking up a current list of injured reserves before the snickering and guffawing of everyone around me draws my attention instead to the field. Another player, a more athletic specimen with a darker tinged moptop spilling out from under his hat – and he too looks a little familiar, I must admit, so maybe I’m way off base in believing I recognize all these guys –has just reared back and launched a ball a few stories into the sky. Or so I gather, based upon the residuals of body language on the field, the way nobody else but this character seems to be in motion, as his teammates instead idly stare at him. The recoil of his own body just now recovering itself, before racing across the field, to the left center field wall, and a strange, 1980s-esque ad he is crashing and leaping against, which features this sourfaced senior couple, sporting some seriously dated Sunday service clothes, with the word ADCO outlined over their shoulders in translucent pink neon, then trailing away underneath a series of smaller, progressively fainter iterations of the word, a spiral of hallucinogenic trails.
Anyway, this ballplayer, who has the appearance of an outfielder and is certainly behaving like one at the moment, leaps and clangs against this sign, glove outstretched over the top of the chain link as an extension of this orchestrated stunt, in pursuit of the ball he’s launched and timed ever so. Or not. For instead what happens is he jumps and the glove does clear this wall by a good two feet, but his projectile sails well beyond, out of reach and out of sight. And then in a final, vaguely Jose Canseco-ish touch, his hat even pops off.
“Fucking Dogwell,” Chester mutters under his breath, derisive and admiring all at once, hands on hips and grinning as he views this spectacle.
Dogwell. Of course. Everything is coming together now. I’m not forcing phantom connections. He breezed into Bofe’s yesterday, explaining there was a rainout, though at the time I had no reason to consider this significant.
“He any good?” I ask.
Though it’s early, Chester already seems more alive already in this milieu than he has any other, as if pedal-powered into radiance by this steadily swelling audience. He speaks as if there’s an entire audience listening, this a public appearance. Not just loud and laughing at his own jokes but turning every which way to gauge the reactions of random strangers in our vicinity, if not approaching them directly.
“Eh, you know,” Chester shrugs, “he was here last spring, babes. Plays a little left field, a little third. Kind of a goofy shit, though. Ass kisser. He’d probably get farther with the coach if he wasn’t so damn annoying!” He chortles himself into a borderline wheezing state at this astute observation, boiling a player down to the raw essence.
“Any power?” I ask, though, unsatisfied, pressing onward with a clarification of what I really meant to say, the only thing anyone really cares about. Since we were kind of getting off topic, here.
“He certainly thinks so, babes, heh heh,” Chester replies, and only now does Professor Faraday connect with this conversation. Standing on the other side of this crazy old hillbilly, pulling on a foamy 22 ounce draft beneath his green plastic visor and Kurt Vonnegut hair, he finally nods and regards us with an amused, knowing smile.
“Oh yeah?” I say.
“Oh yeah. Ask him about the one home run he hit down here, his last trip around this track. Last season.”
“Please don’t,” Faraday pleads, staring ahead once more, glued to the action on the field.
“Yeah babes. He never shut up about the damn thing. You’d have thought it was a moon shot. See, what happened was, he hit the highest pop up in the history of organized baseball, okay? Then the wind got ahold of it, carried the ball thataway about three clicks,” Chester waves one arm toward the outfield to demonstrate, “then it clonked off the top of the fence, and then it went over. Just barely. To hear him tell it he really drilled the sucker, though.”
“So then what? You said he was here last year?”
“Well yeah, so,” Chester sighs, breezing through a perfunctory explanation he’d rather not deliver, “he did alright here, got called up to double A after a couple months, then he must’ve tweaked somethin or whatever. Got hurt. Now’s he back.”
After the players exit the field for the last of their mysterious pregame rituals, I use the downtime for flipping through the remainder of this mostly black and white manual. Only the advertisements are rendered in color. Still, these alphabetized roster photos are amusing enough, beginning with the manager, former Cleveland Indians great Casey Clark. One thing you can always count on seeing in a minor league setting, which you almost always forget about until finding yourself in a minor league setting, the specter therefore representing an unexpected, almost giddy bonus, is the unfailing presence of semi-obscure former players now filling out these coaching staffs. At Triple A, you can at least count on a fringe player or three per roster, perpetual borderline guys, or former near-legends trying to hang on for one last shot at big league dough. Aside from brief injury rehabbers, that’s not nearly as likely in these lower rungs. Therefore one finds oneself marveling all the more at the likes of, say, the Cyclones’ current pitching coach, Rich Hargreaves, every now and then should you glimpse him in the dugout – not that I have, just yet – while scrambling to piece together what scraps of his career you recall, the different uniforms worn, perhaps the lone spectacular season or flicker of postseason glory.
Hargreaves strung together a number of perfectly decent seasons into his late thirties, which I always thought made some kind of crazy sense considering he looked about 45 as a rookie. As for Casey Clark, I’d actually kind of forgotten about the guy, though putting together at least a pair of 20 homer-ish, 85 RBI type seasons as a third baseman for the Tribe before he was traded away into oblivion. Seeing him in this program instantly summons the old jokes, my buddies and me, coworkers fanned out around a sports bar widescreen, laughing as yet again Clark took a called third strike right down the middle of the zone. The way this would happen multiple times a game, seemingly every game, and yet Clark continued holding down his job, as we wondered aloud, is he banging the manager’s daughter or something? Why does nobody ever correct this? How he would never have the balls enough to argue with an umpire, even, as his silly bearded face strolled back to the dugout, shaking his head with disbelief, tongue ever so slightly extended out of mouth, as if saying to himself – and believing it, somehow – nope, that wasn’t a strike, either, I can’t believe my ridiculous luck, no matter how many occasions this would repeat in the course of a season.
Beyond the coaches heading off these photos, here come the players, shrunken to a minimal size per page so as to allow maximum viewing potential for the oil change advertisements and dollar off slushie coupons. It’s a bottom heavy group of 25 right now, however, alphabetically speaking, meaning that the visage of Brian Dogwell materializes in the second cluster. With his blandly handsome features fully visible here despite the meager square inch of real estate, handsome only by virtue of being non-ugly, he nonetheless comes off in this picture as a guy who possesses an electric smile, and uses it often, but was caught slightly off guard by this photographer and never had a chance to flip the on switch.
This observation finds me circling back to an earlier one, questioning the identity of that lanky reliever (I’m all but certain on this role) stretching and guffawing on the sidelines. It only takes a cursory scan of the San Diego injured legions online for me to ascertain that these meaningless tidbits seep into your bloodstream, if you stick with this stuff night after night after night, every year of your life. A cheeseburger at the bar after twelve hours of filing reports, and still you can’t shut down, in fact you are more attenuated to every tweak, the ramifications stemming from every move made on the silent TV above your head. Nights falling asleep with a west coast game on, the inane babbling of these announcers reassuring, even, as you pick up a traveling fireman’s ERA in this hypnotic state, and furthermore will somehow know this tidbit the rest of your life, like Julian Tavarez’s won-loss record in 1995, or that Ken Griffey Jr. hit 40 bombs and knocked in 118 during his first season with the Reds. But yes, this character was an All-Star with the Padres, in his rookie campaign alone. Gary Roderick. He’s only been with a major league ballclub for 4 seasons, all with San Diego, and he’s already 29. Here on some kind of rotator cuff repair assignment, but has yet to appear in action for Townsboro.
Just when I’d begun to doubt his whereabouts on the premises, Tom Bowman slides into the vacant seat to my right. He is wearing a thin, pine green zippered jacket, vinyl, in his hands clutches a steaming tall cup of debatable ballpark coffee. Though otherwise seemingly coherent, he does already carry 50lb bags of ballast under each drooping eye, and I’m thinking there’s no way he will make it another, what, five and a half days.
“Wow babes,” Chester harrumphs, upon seeing his condition, “I can’t tell if you need a helluva lot more good drugs or a helluva lot less. Whatever yer doin ain’t workin.”
To this, Tom only cranes his neck ever so slowly, with a speed of someone twenty years Chester’s senior, and offers the weakest of smiles. Meanwhile Chester babbles on, the topic one I’d mercifully zoned out on up to this point.
“…yeah so anyway, I was askin Stu just to make sure, n’ he said yep, we’s gonna have double the fireworks. Since we’s swamped out last night, they’re givin us double the fireworks tonight.”
“Who the hell is Stu?” Faraday demands, with an anger that seems out of place in its ferocity – even for him – whether aimed at Chester or, more likely, the empty, clear plastic beer cup he is now contemplating.
“Um, clearly that would be the fireworks’ grand marshal, professor,” Tom states with a cackle, “aren’t you paying attention?”
“Why all the fireworks, though? This is only April,” I question.
Faraday, standing now, as he transparently plots his next move to the nearest suds vendor, offers the explanation that, “eh, it’s cheaper than giving out 5000 batting helmets.”
The kind professor does raise an interesting point here, and a valid one at that. Although I have wondered on many a minor league assignment – well, okay, perhaps not that many minor league assignments – when sent solo in the name of whatever ghastly coverage, whether most ballpark promotions offer any kind of draw at all. For every jersey giveaway night that finds fanatics lined up hours in advance, well beyond the point that many will wind up empty handed, I’ve probably attended ten games where an autograph signer was tucked away in some back corner so deep that even the concession help didn’t know his whereabouts.
As Faraday is slinking away in search of the nearest alcohol outpost, we are joined by numerous others I had forgotten were even floating around. First Brad materializes in the aisle to the right of Tom, with an inexplicably horrified expression distorting his features, and then the rest of the pack slides in behind us, Crystal giggling with devilish mirth as she throws both arms around Bowman’s neck.
“Soooooo,” she sings, “I hear Alicia will be joining us tonight.”
Tom offers an ambiguous chopped off nod which leaves an observer wondering if this means he already knew that, or is only acknowledging that he heard Crystal speak.
“Brad!” he commands instead, “grab a freaking seat! You’re killing me, here!”
And yet the object of his scorn remains rooted in place, grabbing his jaw tightly with a death grip hand, as he surveys the immediate scene. “Well but these seats are taken now,” Brad gestures at the row behind us, which is basically Benny with a bunch of girls, “and I don’t wanna sit in front of everyone, and this seat I was planning on taking has…stuff all over it!”
By this he means the lone chair between Tom and the aisle, which finds its seated neighbor screwing up his face in disbelief as he appraises it. “Who gives a shit? It’s just a little dirt! Are you planning on licking the surface or something?”
“Well, no,” Brad admits, pure nerves while rubbing both hands together, as if hoping to build a fire with the friction.
“Okay then! Park your ass! You need to lighten up, man!” As Brad fidgets, then slips into the indicated chair, Tom continues, adding, “just trying to help, sir. You are heading toward meltdown land with this crap.”
Soon enough, the game is underway. As Townsboro’s starting nine sprints onto their marks, a squad named the Portsmouth something-or-others begins their single file procession to either batter’s box, in perfectly fine but by no means imaginative road greys with green and black trim. From the outset, it’s clear that the starting pitcher, Lawrence, possesses if nothing else a dazzling heater, and I even go as far as making notes like a traditional scout would, critiquing his stuff on my pocket recorder.
“Yup, yup,” I look over to see Chester beaming at one early juncture, “we’s gettin double fireworks. Stu already told me. Since they swamped us out last night.”
“Tornado season,” some random middle aged dude he apparently knows agrees, in the seat behind him.
“That’s right. 25th anniversary babes so we got ‘em the whole homestand.”
After the third baseman, Merritt, makes a sweet backhand pick on a scorching grounder, and fires a sizzling strike across the diamond for out three, the cast swaps places so the Cyclones might have their hacks. But first, the initial of many inane between-frames distractions, most of which have nothing to do with the game whatsoever. In the middle of the first, it’s an innocuous announcement to check page 27 of the program for a specific code, as the lucky possessor will win a bat signed by the entire Townsboro roster; from here however the interest level devolves sharply, to an obnoxious announcer guy standing on the home team dugout, pacing with a microphone as he pulls a stranger from the crowd and, while the Jeopardy theme song plays, has him answer three random questions about everything except baseball – and fail at two of them – which nets the participant only a foam finger, though the grand prize had been a family four pack of tickets; up next is the obligatory ketchup, mustard, and relish bottle races, meaning a trio of grown adults in fuzzy costumes running down the first base line followed, in between later frames, by a crowd singalong for the pair of children in attendance who apparently claim today as their birthday; a bottom-of-the-second bonanza whereby everyone in section F39, row J, so says the booming overhead announcer guy, not to be confused with his dugout pacing counterpart, wins a bottle of Flamin’ Larry’s BBQ Sauce; the heartwarming, tittering laugh inducing sprint by every willing child seven and under, from one foul line over to the other, an arc through the outfield grass that will see some tripping and falling, some meandering into quick-to-react grounds crew folk who gently steer them in the right direction, still others who give up entirely; meaningless multiple question type trivia nuggets lit up in yellow bulbs on the aged center field scoreboard, to which the crowd is encouraged to shout out their answers, in this sacred pursuit of constant stimulation; all of which brings us only to the top of the third, and quite naturally doesn’t include the eardrum pulverizing, bass heavy jams pumped out in between each of these circus shenanigans, nor the very special first pitch of the game thrown out by 87 year old Doris Funderburke of nearby Harter, Ohio, who recently celebrated her 50th year as a checkout lady at a beloved locally owned grocery store. Nor the twice as special moment of silence halfway through the third frame, in honor of those suffering from dementia.
Is it wrong to admit this is my top highlight from the contest thus far? I say this only because it offers a respite from ridiculous disco ditties that should have been euthanized immediately after the 1970s ended, and probably would have been, if not kept on life support at these games. Or does this admission make me an old man? I suppose the proper thing to say is that I am majorly supportive of the charity du jour, to make eye contact with and nod at my neighbor with dour solemnity and leave it at that. But can I possibly be the only spectator who gets a little agitated by these endless distractions? Do we not attend games to, you know, watch the games? The silly diversions are bad enough, although this is more a live concern and something we are fortunately spared during commercial breaks at our home, where in any event we are mostly likely heading off to the kitchen for a beer anyway. There is no escape from the showrunners’ insistence upon making every event about something, however. And then by extension it means we the viewers are disrespectful of the charity itself should any of us complain. Certainly, the 1/32nd of every cent collected today that they are pledging to dementia research is a grander gesture than I have executed on behalf of other people in the sum of my days. Nonetheless, if given the choice I would almost certainly choose becoming afflicted with dementia myself rather than have to sit through a half dozen PSAs about it, every game, for the rest of my life.
Mulling these matters does pull me away from the game, though, which in a roundabout manner means they have won. The disease has won the day, dammit. So as the self-selected walkup music for their leadoff hitter kicks off the bottom of the third, ten seconds of a charming gangsta rap number, I make a concerted effort to follow the scoreless match a little more closely – an attention that seems to bear telepathic karmic fruit when the batter, Santiago, slashes a fierce, bounding single right up the middle. Then again I know we have pounded mightily upon that door all game thus far but have yet to barge through it. Townsboro loaded the bases in the first, before a twin killing and then a strikeout snuffed out all progress, while a double to start the last frame was wasted when three other rockets happened to be fired right at people.
This looks like the start of something promising, however, as this single feeds into more good fortune, a hanging curveball ripped into the left field corner to plant men at second and third. Confirmed when the sweetest sound in sports, that of perfectly squared up wood connecting with a pitch, greets this already tired hurler’s next pitch, and it sails into the void beyond that ad plastered center field wall. A no doubter meaning the batter can even get away this jackass showboating move, of doing the whole Carlton Fisk wave bit up the first base line. Chester, as one might expect, is the first and most vocal among us to react.
“That’s right!” he cheers, then shoves two fingers in his mouth to produce a shrill dog whistle. “You been ‘Cloned, baby!”
It takes a moment for this play on words to register, then another handful to consider that this was actually clever and to wonder if our drunken hillbilly friend came up with it. Except then a panoramic glance around the stadium reveals that which I’ve missed somehow, namely dozens of fans, most of them wearing chocolate colored official team gear, standing to reveal the slogan Greetings Visitor, You Have Now Been ‘Cloned, or simpler variations thereof,in the familiar lowercase font, yellow, once featured by the San Diego Padres.
When the remainder of this half inning unfurls without further damage, I consider it an excellent opportunity to see about a drink refill. Tom, who has already sauntered off and back with a second tall coffee, blows across the white plastic lid as I pass, and nods to acknowledge my stated passage without looking up. Brad’s seat is vacant, meanwhile, though I don’t even recall him leaving.
As I exit our row and begin the ascent up these thankfully drawn out steps, a darting peek to those directly behind us confronts the jarring severity of that Carrie chick, apparition pale beyond those very real bags under her eyes, eyes which are burning furious laser beams at those before her. Namely, Crystal smiling and leaning into Tom again, hand cupped over his ear as she says something into it. At the far end, Benny stands and stretches as he yuks it up in laughs- aplenty fashion with some dudes in the next row back, and in between all this commotion sits Marianne, the only one looking at me, shrugging and smiling with a friendly hand in the air as I pass. I too execute a wave, that of the alternating fingers variety, like a piano player’s trill, while chuckling and muttering, “hey, what’s up?” A response I am hoping comes off as chill and indifferent rather than someone who has nothing original to say.
The concourse is thronged with people, but most lines remain short. This I take to mean a lot of them just felt like walking around, and true, there are sizeable pockets doing just that, men leaning against the top rail, housewives chatting in the middle as swarms of offspring run around them. A great deal of folks concentrate along one grassy strip just beyond the final concession stand, either waiting for or currently enjoying the bouncy house and merry-go-round. I don’t think the popularity of these indicates that the kids don’t like baseball so much as if you give them endless options, they’re going to pester mommy and daddy endlessly until granted access. Call me a purist, but are we sure this is a hot strategy for developing future interest in the game?
I guess they are doing everything they can just to stay afloat. You can’t help but extend tremendous sympathy to these sad little minor league operations, even when their stunts are eye-rolling, even when armed with the knowledge of how much revenue the parent clubs generate.
Most are constantly struggling to turn a profit, and enduring through such strange relationships with said big league counterparts – forced to give up their most successful pieces, thereby sabotaging their own operation by doing well, while in turn accepting busted hand-me-downs without protest. And since the players have no union, they are sold up the river by their rich former contemporaries every time those who’ve reached the majors renegotiate a bargaining agreement. When the average dude writing about minor league baseball, for a sports magazine, earns more than the subjects themselves, the system is probably awry. In their honor I will therefore ponder these matters all the way to the beer garden, then forget about it.
The line for crap drafts is about five deep for all three windows, but there’s no wait whatsoever for the good stuff at a small tent across the way. En route I pass Brad, oblivious to the world as he paces around, eyeing the food options intently with an index finger on the chin. I get the feeling he has wrung his hands over this for quite a while, and will continue to do so. At any rate he continues to careen throughout the land long after I’ve exited with my frothy drink. And as I return, Crystal is now in my old seat, showing Tom something on her phone, while he in turn is suddenly sporting a bright pink leather cowboy hat – or is that cowgirl hat? – pinned up on one side, string chin strap and all, a cowgirl hat of the Australian Outback. As for my easy options, they are to either slide into the right of that crazy looking Carrie chick, or occupy Brad’s vacant chair next to Tom. I readily select the latter.
“I’m telling you! Look! Fifteen minutes tops!” Crystal is telling Tom, wagging what appears to be a weather map in his face.
“Yeah, well, it is tornado season,” he says, in a Benny-worthy mumble.
Crystal laughs, a merry, escalating trill that is wondrous to absorb, and says, “I’m not talking about a tornado, dumbass! I’m talking about a rainstorm. Look at all this red! It’s gonna be here any minute.”
“What?” he shrugs, “I believe you. I just don’t happen to care.”
Shaking her head as she continues to titter, followed by more of a closed mouth humming laugh, Crystal tucks her phone in one front jeans pocket and sighs. After a silent moment where everybody watches the action, including a line drive out to left field, she giggles and turns to him asking, grinning too with mischievous delight, “so, are you nervous about tonight? You and Alicia in the same room…I mean how long has it…”
“Since we broke up. So…yeah, about a year.”
“Wow. You seriously haven’t seen her since?”
“Nope,” Tom replies, the clean break of that final consonant sound packing a severity which suggests he is finished with this topic for now.
The expected tee-shirt launching crews have already graced us at least twice, but as the team are switching places on the field, a slight variation materializes, in the form of some employee strolling around and tossing team hats to people. “Throw me yer wallet!” this hilljack a few rows down and to the left from us shouts, as everyone within earshot choruses a soft sitcom soundtrack laugh.
“The hat’s worth more!” Chester fires back, and this crowd laughs even louder.
This flurry of activity roughly coincides with the first few light rain sprinkles splashing across our faces. I tilt my head to squint at the sky, which is grey more than anything else, to be sure, but doesn’t necessarily portend a downpour as Crystal insisted. The Cyclones mascot, an ambiguous fuzzy yellow blob, is way over on the first base dugout now, headbanging to some modern “country” song with heavy metal guitars and a hip hop beat, the male voice heavily Auto-tuned. He’s over there firing balled up tee shirts into the crowd, packing the trusty bazooka, and this of course has most of his potential targets in a standing, screaming, hand waving fervor.
A trio of attractive woman in the same age bracket as I, all of them blonde and in tight jeans – though of varying dimensions otherwise – soon diverts my attention in their exclusive direction, however. They are ascending the narrow stairwell directly below us, from what I’m guessing were front row seats. As they near us, the wind briefly catches in my throat when the tallest one, in the lead, stops and leans over into my face. But it turns out she just wants Tom. She smacks the bill of his pink leather hat, to which he, though mid-sentence speaking to Crystal about something else, ever so slowly responds by raising his gaze to her. And then this woman, plenty hot to me yet old enough to be his mom, cups her right hand around his chin, fixes her sparkling blue eyes upon his. Then laughs like a sprite, actually all three of these women do, as they march out of sight without a word said.
And then Brad is at my side, with a basket of chicken tenders and fries, clutching a tall soft drink about the same size as his open, drooping mouth. He looks both completely baffled that I am here, and at a loss for whatever other options might exist. Bowman eventually becomes aware of his lurking presence.
“Bradley! What the hell! Just sit somewhere!”
“But I was…,” he starts.
“I can get up,” I offer, and spring about one fourth of the way out of my seat, until Tom place a hand across my chest to silently suggest I check all progress.
“What did I tell you?” he howls, as if mystified by the concept. He nods to the vacancy behind me and suggests, “sit by Carrie!” and then flaps his left on arm over in that direction, commands, “or tell us to get the fuck out of the way, and come sit down here! What difference does it make?”
Instead of replying, Brad turns on his heels and stomps out of this seating section altogether. As no stranger to these painful social dilemmas myself, in the long gone younger days, before I learned to dull the edges somewhat with alcohol, to care about outcomes as little as possible, to learn little tricks along the way for psyching myself into situations, I fight the urge to chase after him. I don’t think it’s a fatherly impulse or a desire to play big brother, even, so much as the signal sent by hardwired peacekeeping genes. But ultimately I am lazy most of all, and furthermore loath to standing out myself, thus continue to sit here. Crystal, playing with her impossibly sleek, shiny black ponytail, crinkles her nose up and giggles, watching him leave.
As for on the field action, Brian Dogwell, the seventh hitter in Townsboro’s lineup, leads off the bottom of the fourth. Portsmouth hurler Mendes, a short, round Latino who hasn’t fooled anyone today, throws a cookie fastball with his first pitch and Dogwell blisters it, though just a smidgen too eager. The laser shot he drills sails on a line wide of the left field foul line, last seen bouncing across the dirt lot beyond.
And maybe he’s just too antsy all around. Or maybe he embodies the clichéd young player who can hit nothing but fastballs, maybe it’s a fatal glitch he will never overcome. Maybe he will succeed anyway, because Lord knows I’ve seen countless big leaguers swinging for the fences at all times, even when the situation clearly doesn’t demand it. And that’s what he does here, with a massive rip and a miss, then a pair of fouled off overswings, a time out and sad sack pace around the dirt, accompanied by a sorrowful Casey Clark-esque shake of the head which he may have in fact learned from the master, then, on an offering that looks unequivocally above his head, flails mightily, though with better timing than previous efforts. Meaning that, though again swinging for the bleachers, he has merely succeeded in undercutting the ball. It plops down immediately in front of home plate and the catcher ambles out to retrieve it. As Dogwell jogs up the first base line, the pudgy backstop has a leisurely half dozen steps to spare but slips or something and airmails his throw anyway, as it hooks out of the first baseman’s reach. Dogwell makes the turn but the right fielder, backing up on the play, snags the carom and the damage is limited to a one base error. Our triumphant left fielder, panting from his titanic efforts at the plate, returns to the bag panting, fist bumping his first base coach and nodding repeatedly in satisfaction with a job well done.
And then the floodgates open again, though not of the overhead variety. The next batter tattoos a one bounce double off the wall, and Mendes is lifted. Some goofy string bean named Henriksen, looking already like a career mop-up specialist, gives up a walk and then a run scoring single to left. Another pitching change is announced. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the motion of Marianne’s hand tapping Crystal in triplet pats on the shoulder, as she half turns and nods. Considering the sprinkles have turned into a more insistent drizzle, I’m not exactly surprised by the announcement to follow.
“Well, you boys have fun with this,” Crystal declares, standing and stretching in a manner that does by fortuitous happenstance tighten her already proud upper chest swell. “We’re making our dramatic exit.”
As I turn to wave goodbyes, for Crystal has chosen to hop the chair rather than proceed through us, Marianne in passing yanks on Chester’s hairsprayed tassels of grayish white hair, messes with Tom’s hat, then squeezes my shoulder. Our eyes meet and we share a smile. And then the girls are gone.
“She’s crazy as hell,” Chester appraises from three seats away, “this thing’ll blow over in ten minutes, tops.”
A hot smash to third turns into a force out at home, and then, despite working the count full, Townsboro’s first baseman Mueller – equally ripped and athletic looking, presumably the team’s best hitter as he occupies the three hole – bounces into a rally exterminating double play. And now the goddamn fuzzy yellow stuffed animal is on our dugout, assaulting people with his team gear launching cannon, as we advance to the fifth frame.
“So Brad seems to have hightailed it out of here,” I observe with a jolly chuckle, “in response to your friendly advice.”
Tom gives an indifferent shrug and states, “yeah, well, I’m just trying to help the guy. He’s gonna fry his circuit board if he doesn’t get a grip on some of this crap. Last night it was, er, um, jeez, there’s nowhere really comfortable enough here, think I’ll go rent a hotel room. Which is great and all, but come on…”
Now is probably not the time to mention I too have been contemplating the very same thing, although for reasons of head clearing and battery recharging rather than fastidiousness. I clear my throat and ask, “so who was that blonde woman, anyway?”
Tom issues a screwed up, slightly high pitched laugh and replies, “what, that, uh, cougarific display a minute ago?” He nods once, then, as if answering his own question, explains further, “she’s the one who gave me this hat, actually. But yeah, I can’t remember what her name is, they’re just always sort of around, you know, like anyone…”
A soft but fast moving object whacks me in the side of the face, and it takes a split second to recognize that I’ve just been victimized by the tee shirt launcher. At which point it falls onto the metal armrest directly in front of me, between this slightly older couple who immediately snatch the rubber banded souvenir. The man creaks his head just far enough in my direction to register that he is technically looking at my face, and with a slight, close lipped smile, he raises a quick hand in my direction, just like you would for a fellow motorist allowing you to exit a parking lot in front of them.
Funny, but I’ve been attending these baseball games my entire life, standing and flapping my arms around like an idiot, yet never come anywhere near one of these freaking tee shirts. The first time I’m ever caught not paying attention, one such coveted prize smacks me in the head, but then falls in someone else’s lap anyway. There has to be a name for this phenomenon. For now let’s christen it Dale Murphy’s Law.
As Portsmouth cycles through their batting order in the top of the fifth, the rain intensifies, which might play into both Crystal’s and Chester’s theories about the impending weather. Either way, it becomes obvious the umpires are beginning to call a strike for any pitch within a zip code’s reach of home plate, to expedite this contest and squeeze in the requisite frames needed for an official game in the books. A curious situation plays out as a result of this unspoken philosophy. As if figuring they might as well get their hacks in anyway, because working a count is out of the question, the visiting team lets it rip. Anything the bat can reach, they are suddenly flailing at, and the results are not pretty.
Before we know what hit us, the score is 4-2 and the bases are loaded, Casey Clark is on the mound finally executing a long overdue hook. According to a display flashed in yellowish white light bulbs on the center field scoreboard in the third, he’s closing in on some sort of games managed record for this franchise, so I’m assuming he must know his way around constructing and utilizing a roster, although you wouldn’t guess it from this mangling of this particular inning. Playing matchups with a reliever now to obtain a lefty-lefty split blows up in his face when a soft, arcing bloop to left center somehow turns into a game tying, two run double. Rich Hargreaves is out next to lend a hanky and some moral support, all of which is a flimsy smokescreen anyway for buying the bullpen a little more warmup time.
Gary Roderick becomes the next arm brought into combat, which I was hoping might prove the case. As a good half of the remaining fan base heads for the exits, figuring that whether this turns into a win, loss, rain delay, game cancellation, or extra inning affair, that none of these options sound particularly appetizing, Roderick nonetheless electrifies the remaining faithful by violently sidearming three blazing fastballs past one hapless batter, all of which resemble legitimate strikes. Then does the same for the next two pitches on the next batter, before plunking him with a third. And so Clark is presently yanking him as well, Roderick leaving the mound with his rain spattered glasses slung low, eyes on the ground.
“Ten minutes, tops,” I hear Chester telling some other waterlogged lunatic in his vicinity, and he seems to believe it, though I’m pretty sure it’s been at least a quarter of an hour since his initial utterance of this phrase. Then again, the black sky is lightening just a tick over his shoulder, so maybe he knows his stuff.
A sharp single basically spoon fed to the centerfielder becomes a disaster, all the same, when he then uncorks a ridiculous throw home that sails halfway up the backstop. Portsmouth’s runner trots in without so much as a slide, and suddenly they have grabbed the lead. They tack on yet another run, too, in a manner I am no longer properly focusing upon enough to capture, before this half inning draws to a merciful close. And the rain chooses this moment to intensify, increasing not only in speed and force but also volume, a sudden whoosh as if someone had cranked an FM dial tuned to nothing but static. We are all now beyond debate soaked.
“So what is the backstory with this Alicia, anyway?” I shout above the downpour.
“Oh god, not that again. Why does everyone keep asking about this?”
“Come on, man! You have to give me something! I don’t have much of a story without it.”
Tom shrugs but then considers, and actually looks at me for a change. “What’s this story about, anyway?”
Caught off guard by the question, even if I should have expected it from somebody sooner or later – much like our inquiries about Alicia, I suppose – laughter explodes from my lungs as I admit, “beats me. Although I have to admit it is starting to take shape, somehow.”
Despite Chester’s protests, I am under no illusions as to what is happening here. Game cancelled yesterday, they’re going to cram one into the ledger tonight. One way or the other. To entertain myself I am speaking into the micro recorder, which I’m hoping will capture the sounds of a minor league ballpark, such as it is, in this current state of poorly attended distress, offering up my own stream of consciousness observations here and there. And so the first pair of batters are called out on laughable punchouts, followed by the even more hilarious and improbable drawing of a two out walk by the next hitter, one that – I’m sure it’s not a coincidence – concludes with runner, first baseman, and first base couch in stitches, laughing their heads off at the ridiculousness of this situation, his refusal to cave in (or perhaps it was an accident) and by extension this continuance of play for one more out in the mouth of a pedigreed torrent.
“Does the subject care to comment on his prior relations with one Alicia Stallard?” I say into the condenser microphone, then swing my arm over in Tom’s direction.
“Dude, get that thing out of my face.”
“The subject does not care to comment at this time,” I say, picking up steam with this characterization as I go, speaking now in the clipped, slightly nasal tone of a seasoned television reporter.
“Wanna grab a beer, babes?” the recorder might possibly pick up Chester saying in the next instant. If there were a video camera documenting this moment, it is likely the grainy footage would also be interpreted as depicting the speaker looking around Tom’s hunched shoulders, considering him a lost cause, making eye contact with the intrepid journalist instead.
“Look,” I explain to Tom levelly, at last, dropping all affectations, humorous or otherwise, “your ex is apparently going to be around at some point or points this week. When she is, I’m probably going to attempt getting her side of the tale, and if she’s like most people, she’s probably eventually going to seize this opportunity to ramble at length about whatever. The question is, do you want to give your side of the story or not?”
Contorted in his hard plastic chair at this moment so he is both, impossible as it may seem, leaning back and slumped forward, Tom puffs out his lips and cheeks, exhales at length through his nose. Then his right arm shoots out like a lizard’s tongue as he yanks this device from my grasp, seething, “fine, give me the damn thing!”
At Chester’s urging, he and I eventually repair to this glass walled “VIP Lounge” that doesn’t seem to enforce much of an attendance policy at present. Apart from free popcorn, and a lack of wait time at the bar when other taps are theoretically lined a dozen deep, the main draw here is climate controlled tables, hovering above the cheap seats halfway between third and home. Call me nuts, but I’ve always felt like the lack of noise seems to cancel out the view, making it seem like you’re actually farther away from the action, not closer, which might explain why the smattering of patrons, when I walked by earlier, were mostly watching this very game on TV.
Of course we are now fully locked into a rain delay, with the Cyclones down 6-4 after five complete. Having both since purchased a round of drafts apiece, and knocking off at least as many baskets of the insanely salty but otherwise flavorless popcorn, I’m up against the glass, attempting to visually capture every last speck of minor league minutiae I might. Somewhere behind me, I hear Chester tell at least three different people, “I seen the weather map, babes, it’s gonna blow over in another ten minutes,” or an ever so slight variation of this comment, and still so many mentions, far more mentions than I care to count, of the elusive specter known as double fireworks.
Afforded this spectacular glass walled vantage, with no action to lament missing, I can appreciate on a pure visual level what a glorious miracle these ballparks represent, even a somewhat older, downtrodden specimen as this. Already illuminated to a degree that would seem insane for most outdoor pursuits – if not tasked with, say, tracking some lumpy rock at a hundred miles an hour, after dark, as it sails fairly close to one’s head – this sudden deluge makes the emerald of that field below sparkle like the sum total of every such jewel in existence. And as I listen to Chester ramble on at length to some creaky old-timer in a cowboy hat, the employee chick saddled with serving them beer, I consider that there is something spectacularly weird and American about minor league baseball. Maybe those two adjectives mean the same thing, I don’t know. But we are far from the only ones stalling for time underneath the various havens of this concourse – nor are we the strangest, if you consider those who remain out in this downpour, silently praying that this game might yet return.
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