My stay in Canada was too brief.
On my third Ontarion morning I rose early, found a coffee shop and hopped on the commuter-filled subway at Wellesley. I was seemingly the only train rider not headed straight to the office and couldn't prevent a small smile from crossing my face. I scooted off at Union Station and left the lemmings to their inner cliffs. After descending several sets of crowded stairs and negotiating the busy station corridors, I found my gate and waited in a long switchbacked line to board the New York City bound Maple Leaf. After everybody was finally seated we departed on time at 8:20 and chugged through the sun-streaked countryside of southeastern Ontario. Before venturing onward to the U.S.A, however, we stopped for a customs inspection near Niagara Falls.
Taking about two hours longer than expected, the border agents seemingly left no document unexposed to their probing eyes. Things weren’t this touchy entering Canada and the train riders became restless. One of the restless ones was me. Like all other passengers, when so directed I had proceeded out of the train and into a facility where stodgy officials asked questions about travel plans and suitcase contents. I handed over my passport, but unlike the others I observed, mine was not given back. Instead I was told to return to my seat, where it would be given to me before we departed.
Back inside our car we all sat, waiting for the train to move, knowing a long ride was ahead and I was wondering why they had seized my passport. Eventually a woman as uniformed in her sternness as she was in her navy blue threads marched down the car and finally relinquished to me my passport. Two minutes later the train began to lurch forward. A handful of fellow passengers shot frustrated glares my way. The friendly young woman with whom I shared my elbow space pointed her finger towards me and razzed, “So it was you that held us up!” All I could do was smile, shrug my shoulders and compliment her on her red Chuck Taylors.
Now is when the trip began to pick up some serious speed. Pulling out of Toronto and headed for the east coast I intended to see five ballparks in seven days. I was also visiting my sister in Brooklyn, seeing an old friend in Massachusetts, seeking brotherly love in Pennsylvania, returning to New York to meet the Mets, and making a stop at our nation’s capitol before finally heading south to Florida. It was a begrudging acknowledgement of population density and a laudable demonstration of good planning that all of this could be easily accomplished by train. As smooth and rapid as it was efficient, one day I awoke in Boston, watched a game in Philadelphia, and slept in New York without breaking a sweat. This pace was a major contrast to the laid back, spread out week in California and the comfortable week-long homecomings in Colorado and Ohio. Everything moves faster out east. This included my schedule as well as my burgeoning cross-country relationship.
I was enjoying getting to know Kate and had started spending more and more of my time and energy writing to her instead of recording my growing number of experiences on the blog. Diverted but still keeping up to this point, I endeavored to continue to balance the two interests. But as the pace of my trip picked up and my fondness for an improbable romance developed daily, I found this chore to be increasingly difficult. Indeed writing on the blog began to feel like work. Eating Manhattenized saag paneer with Holly and Ryan in lieu of a rained out Yankess game, following the ghost of Paul Revere to Walden Pond with Kathryn, and dodging lightning bolts with new friends at Nationals Park while chowing on a half smoke from Ben’s Chili Bowl was not work. Human connection piloted me from day to day. Writing about it started heading toward the backseat. My trip was proving to be more fun than I could have ever imagined. Around every corner and with each new face I seemed to achieve another level of happiness. If it wasn’t the allure of adventure, I was smiling at the warmth of familiarity and friendship.
Underscoring every feeling and stretching the size of my grin was the fact that I was falling for my beautiful, smart, funny, adventurous Portland subletter and she was falling for me. Kate and I had continued emailing back and forth and the frequency of our correspondence increased. She was a hell of letter writer and seeing her name come up in my inbox thrilled me. Somehow the communication proved exhilarating on both ends and we were up to an email everyday -- at least.
I kept questioning, “Could this really be happening? What are the odds? Am I crazy?” My answers were immediate and unreserved, “Who cares? This is too much fun to analyze. This is crazy.” Strings of emails 23 responses long, under subject headings like Lumpy Oatmeal, Happy Bastille Day, Toetally Concerned Over Here, and A Good Thing occupied most of my thoughts. It was hard to believe that I was falling for a girl that I had met only three brief times under restrained and sober circumstances. She was living in my room, sitting in my gold chair, writing to me everyday and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I was engaged by our karmic past, turned on by our present and becoming helplessly magnetized to thoughts of our future.
It was during this hectic time that Kate was faced with a decision to stay in Portland or return to San Francisco. This lead to more emails, which lead to the first official disclosure of our emerging feelings for one another. I was beginning to project to the end of my trip. A night of mojitos was already in the works and I desperately wanted her to stay in Portland. When asked what I thought she should do I provided two responses. One was an unbiased look at the pros and cons of going back to California, but my true answer was a simple confession of my selfish desire to have her still living in Portland upon my return. The moment called for such a statement and it felt good to come clean with my emerging feelings. She seemed relieved, perhaps flattered as well, and the intensity of our pen pal romance clicked up a notch. However, this wasn’t going to keep her in Oregon.
And now... the week in review
Post:
Top Nine Seinfeld Episodes
One of the things that I like about my blog is that it revolves around a couple of different suns. Baseball is one of those. Because of this I can post pretty much anything and just chalk it up to being "out of left field." If popular lexicon can hijack the number seven position -- the rag arms of the outfield, the "it'll work" spot for the backup first baseman -- then I surely can use it and abuse it for my personal blogging purposes.
I'm traveling to New York right now. That's where my favorite television show was set and the home of the Yankees (a George Costanza employer) and the Mets (Jerry's favorite team). In honor of my big apple arrival I'd like to list my top nine Seinfeld episodes. Here we go, off the top of my head and followed by my favorite line:
9) The Bizarro Jerry ("Hello, Vargus..")
8) The Chinese Restaurant ("You know we're living...in a society")
7) The Alternate Side ("These pretzels are making me thristy")
6) The Marine Biologist ("You know I always wanted to pretend to be an architect")
5) The Merv Griffin Set ("Say hello to our good friend George Costanza")
4) Festivus ("No bagel, no bagel, no bagel")
3) The Hot Tub ("You tell that son of a bitch no Yankee is ever coming to Houston")
2) The Pilot* ("If you took the raisins, if you didn't take the raisins -- They weren't even my raisins")
1) The Boyfriend* ("I'm Keith Hernandez")
*2-part episodes
jt said...Blue said..
Blue said...There's so many more - "The Fatigues" ("It's a hot night. You think about your knife - the only friend that hasn't abandoned you. The only friend who won't be dead by morning. Sleep tight, mates, in your quilted chambray nightshirts."). Or "Why do they call it Ovaltine? The jar is round. The
Games:
August 14: Yankee Stadium -- Bronx, NY
Rained out. Booooo. I'm going to try and make it back the labor day weekend between the Orioles and Pirates games.
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| The Optimists |
Post:
A cynical impression of New York City
"We could slip away. Wouldn't that be better? Leave with nothing to say. You in your autumn sweater."
The Northeast Regional pulls outside of New York's Penn Station at 6:55am and I can hardly wait to get to Boston. We're all on the inside of the train now, and most can hardly care. The numbers of paper (paper!) Starbucks cups in hand are rivaled only by the numbers of green ties and shoes that go click-clack, like a train down the tracks of career. A New York Times is at arm's length and a neck is stretched at popped collar's length while the glasses, fully fashionable and functionally fuzz-ridding glasses, are applied mid-face to find out about forgetful forces and feel good farces.
Outside there are men who will never be outside of New York City, that keep New York City running, exercising and healthy so other men, like me, may come and go as they please. Homes, family homes with kitchen tables and armchairs step on shoulder after shoulder after shoulder and rise only to see other shoulder steppers that too are surfacing to breathe something besides piss and garbage. I heard someone say, "This is New York City. America? That's a different place all together." True? Maybe. But for sure it is New Yorkers that are all together, in this shithole.
Maybe to some, those affluent or blind or both, it's a place to behold. They can polish away the rusts of wrongness with their accumulated quilts of cold cash. There is an awful lot of defensiveness here. I know why New Yorkers are proud of their city. It's because they must be, or they'll get so goddamned depressed running into elbows, paying six dollars for milk and fending off pretentiousness that it would be unbearable. So as it is in too many places, the top of the city's food chain revels in the diversity of its primary producers, delighting in delicious and different dinners every night. Shape suiters naively tag along, bouncing from the trophic trampoline of instinct up the American dream grapevine to pop grapes like apes.
Or apples. Big apples.
This is what I see on the trains. All of them. The trains that arrive and depart the city whiz and whir past projects, ghettos, and fields of industry. Acred cement slabs of industry, occupied by men that make 500 times less than the man that put them there, to be more precise. The city trains, they rock back and forth, the same way the pangs of escape must surely sway the desires of the train riders. Again, inside these trains I see men and women that will only ever see the inside of New York City. Some have their work boots kicked into the aisles and others carry children. They are beautiful children that may someday have a chance to climb atop the torpedo, rather than having it locked on them, threatening them forever. Its only a chance, but it's a chance -- a chance counting on a chance that counts on the currents of a river of chances. Of course the beautiful children first need mom and dad to make rent this month, and the next month, and the next month...
Alison Franco said...
jt said...hey Steve ... when your done with this trip ..... will you please NOT stop writing on your blog?
Games:
August 16: Fenway Park -- Boston, MA
Tampa Bay 1
Boston 3
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| Kathryn and I before the game, just across the street from the old ballfield |
Just walking up to the stadium I had a blast. You can say what you want about sports spectatorship and allegiances to teams and players that ultimately care about your dollars, not your feelings. However, when fanmanship is as electric as it is at a place like Fenway, it takes on more than just team allegiance. It's an intricate culture of its own with a particular, peculiar way of speaking, dressing, eating and behaving. I liked being given a sneak peak into this other world.
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| Strolling down Yawkey Ave pre-game |
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| More from Yawkey |
The park itself is fantastic with its history, odd shapes, flamboyant personalities in every little red and green nook, and of course the Green Monster. Our seats were in the center field bleachers. If I sat perfectly straight in my chair and stared dead ahead I looked directly at the right field foul pole. In most parks this would be considered a catastrophic mistake in design, here it is charming.
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| Inside the main concourse: smells like hotdogs and 1912 |
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| The Monstah |
At every park I'm trying to get a picture from directly behind home plate, as high as I can go. At Fenway it was impossible for me to be directly behind the plate because of the press boxes. It was nearly impossible for me to get the top level, right next to the press boxes for a picture. Only people with tickets for the top are allowed access into the special elevator that takes fans up top. I had to go on a mission.
I asked an usher, "Excuse me, I'm on a tour of all the major league ballparks. Part of my thing is that I want a picture of every stadium from the top level, right behind home plate. Here I am at Fenway, the greatest park of them all (smile, wink) and I can't seem to get up there. Can you help me out?" He was a kind man and pointed me in the direction of another usher who'd been working at the stadium for 40 years. I went to him and gave the same appeal. Soon I was coaxing the Fenway ambassadors at guest services to just let me up for a quick picture. They told me to come back between the 4th and 7th innings. The password was Yastremski. Not really, there was no password, but it felt like something out of Mission Impossible the way we were escorted up to the top finally by not one, but two ambassadors. One was gregarious and full of smiles while the other one never said a word. When we exited the elevator I picked my spot and snapped a couple of photos. At that point I was approached by an usher -- a very grumpy man -- that scolded me for taking pictures in that particular spot. A little stunned I said okay and moved. On our way back down the friendly escort smiled and said, "Don't worry. You didn't do anything wrong. That dude's just tired of being 80."
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| The secret mission picture |
People:
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| Pam, Alan and Kathryn on grill duty |
Kathryn, Pam and Alan- I met Kathryn during December of 2006 in the Crested Butte
Massachussettes with Kathryn was a lovely time. It was here that it truly started to sink in how lucky I am to be doing something like this. Not only am I getting to cross the country going to baseball games seeing old friends, but I am experiencing new places and learning things all with the help and generosity of scores of wonderful people (many I've never even met). With KT as my guide I got to see: arguably the best baseball stadium, the birthplace of the American Revolution, turtles, a funny movie, Walden Pond, crazy-looking ducks, the Concord River from a canoe, Boston, the Lexington Green, and my friend.
I also got to meet Pam and Alan, her funny, generous, and loving parents. Kathryn lives in Vermont now, so I was not their only visitor. They put me up in my own room and provided great conversation while giving me food to eat. Really good food. Dinner and its preparations were my favorite part. We were to have various shellfish, cod, corn on the cobb, potatoes, and tomato salad (there was even a steak in there somewhere too). Alan, Kathryn and I sat outside drinking gin and tonic while we shucked the corn. Pam the chef was busy commanding two grilles, an oven, a stovetop, a microwave, preparing the salad and making sure everybody had their glasses full. Alan and I started talking baseball. I don't know if KT totally zoned out at this point, and I'm sorry if we bored you, but I loved it. We shared some of the best baseball stories there are, Ted Williams stories. I used to love it when my dad told me about Teddy Ballgame and felt
We laughed about funny things and talked seriously about important social and economic issues. I loved how after we had our bellies full we settled in to discuss the consequences of our choices as consumers on industries such as mining. I'm against a lot of mining. Why would I want to put a large hole in the ground, toxic or not, where there was once beauty just so luxuries can become more luxurious? I understand that some mining is necessary. We all did. But what we couldn't grasp was how people living in a pristine mountain environment can feel good about themselves while using materials that come from destroyed mountains to play on non-destroyed mountains. We surmised that it must depend on the mountain. I'll surmise here that it depends on the person too.
Post:
Back in Time
"Crank up the Huey Lewis!" I yelled to Kathryn as we approached Doc, Marty and the DeLorean. We were about to embark on a trip through time, back to 1775. Let me tell you why.
The previous day Kathryn and I were at Fenway Park watching the Red Sox battle the Rays. Dustin Pedroia came up to bat and I overheard a man saying something about how no second baseman ever hit as well as Pedroia. I leaned in and mentioned Ryne Sandberg. Clearly I had taken the Bostonians by surprise simply by mentioning a National League player. The discussion stalled because nobody in Boston knows anything about 28 of the 30 major league teams. Slowly rotating on the wobbly axis of RedSox/Yankee lore one man finally ventured a departure, "What about that Bobby Thompson? He hit the 'shot heard 'round the world.'"
That's when another fellow chimed in. He hadn't heard what we were discussing and totally hijacked the conversation putting it on course towards the birthplace of the American Revolution. "It stawted in Con-cud." Then a different fan yelled back "What are you crazy?! The first shots weh fy-yud in Lexington." "Bullshit friend! Con-cud!"
That's when a mysterious message came onto the scoreboard. It said "Moonlight Graham will not be a part of this story. Sleep tight, mates." I thought I was the only one that had seen it, but later that evening when I wheeled around the street on my bike Kathryn was standing there, in front of me and directly in the beam of light cast by my solo headlight. She said, "Moonlight Graham." I hopped off the bike and accosted her for not previously mentioning that she had seen the message too. I asked her if she had heard the voice also. She said, "'Go to sleep?' That voice?" I asked her what that meant. She said, "It means were going to bed."
We made it to Kathryn's parents house in Lexington. On the way I asked her about the Lexington/Concord rivalry and where the first shots of the American Revolution were fired. Growing up in Lexington she had a clear bias, but she dismissed it long enough to tell me that there is significant dispute between both towns of where the official "shot heard 'round the world" occurred. She showed me to my quarters in the guest room and I relaxed, revelling in the comforts of a nice bed after a long day. Soon I was asleep dreaming of MacQueens apple pies and penpal romance.
Just as soon as I had drifted off I was shocked back to consciousness by the guitar riffs of Eddie Van Halen. A being was standing over me. He demanded that I do one of two things or he'd melt my brain. The first option was to try and discover where the "shot heard 'round the world" happened. The second was to take Lorraine to the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance. I was already in Lexington, and because I don't know how to play "Johnny B. Goode" on guitar, I chose the first.
So there we were, jamming to Huey and the News and meeting with Doc and Marty. I kneeled down to pet Einstein and inspect the flux capacitor to make sure it was fluxing. Doc leaned over my shoulder and talked to me about his machine going on and on about plutonium and gigawatts. At one point I turned to him and said, "You know, I bet if this baby hits 88 mph you get to see some serious shit." He wasn't amused, but Marty was and solely out of love for gesticulation he slapped the top of the driver's side door.
We cranked the time circuits to April 19, 1775 and took off.
Kathryn and I canoed up the Concord River to the North Bridge where David Brown's farm was. We saw the Lexington Green where Capt. John Parker and the colonists made their first armed resistance to the British soldiers. And we saw many places in between, like where Paul Revere was finally captured. Where was the "shot heard 'round the world" fired? Here's the deal:
The British were on their way to Concord. That is where the colonists stashed all of thier arms and ammo. The Redcoats were intent on getting those weapons to prevent colonists from shooting them. To get to Concord the Brisitsh had to go through Lexington. That's where the first altercation occurred. Captain John Parker and the men of town stood, fully armed, in the path of the Redcoats. A skirmish ensued and nobody knows who fired the first shot. Eight colonists were killed and ten were wounded. The British suffered one injury and no casualties. The rebels retreated. The British marched on to Concord and found more armed colonists at the Concord River. About 400 minutemen stood in the field on the western side of the north bridge to meet the British force of 96. Another shot rang out and more fighting took place: "The British attempted to cross the bridge. They were not shooting rubber bullets, this was war." This time the rebels were more successful and it was the Redcoats that retreated.
So there were two "first" shots fired. One in Lexington and another in Concord. The skirmish in Lexington happened first, but the shot in Concord began the first successful colonial resistance. Either way I'm betting it was the patriots that fired first.
Here are some pictures:
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| Kathryn and I at Fenway |
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| The Concord Minuteman |
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| The Lexington Minuteman (w/ a helper) |
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| The old Brown Farm with the North Bridge in the distance |
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| It's 1775. Do you seen woman in the Bonnet? |
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| KT yelling to me about the Libyans that were in hot pursuit |
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| The North Bridge |
Anonymous said...
Games:
August 18: Citizens Bank Ballpark -- Philadelphia, PA
Arizona 1
Philadelphia 4
From the west The Nothing glowered at a stadium full of Phillies fans. Over our shoulders, we could hear it approaching and knew it was only a matter of time. It hung over left field and then distressingly over center field. Finally, with the park firmly in its grasp, it lowered the boom. The exclamations of "Jesus Christ!" and "Holy Cow!" could only be heard in the space between the n and the d in thun der. Sideways rain found its way into your collar no matter how thoughtfully you camped under the grandstands. The air was thick with heavy, fast moving rain drops that ran simultaneously into and away from the rooftop lights designed to be bright enough to simulate daytime, causing an optical illusion that made the drops stretch into silvery, glistening threads a foot long.
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| The Nothing looms |
"Miller Lite! Mmmmmmmiller Lite I say heah!" The vendors enjoy a good rain delay. I've often wondered about how they carry those tubs of beer and ice around for three hours. In the case of the rain delay they don't have to. They just plopped themselves in the concourse and let their calls, as individual as the parks themselves, ring out amongst the huddled mass of Ryan Howard and Chase Utley jerseys seeking shelter from the rain. And amongst this mass there was no shortage of takers. As the beer tub emptied, the compressed inner-stadium air filled with a cacophony of monosyllabic taunts and meaningless tirades audibly rising over the constant din of rain on stadium. The Nothing passed, but the rain continued, and my hopes of seeing a full nine innings eroded with each drop.
I don't even know what the score of the game was. I had to look it up for this post. When the rains came it was 3-0 Philadelphia in the middle of 4th. Wilson Valdez had doubled home Raul Ibanez in the second. Then John Mayberry, the same John Mayberry that hit the game-tying home run with two outs in the ninth at Coors Field, hit a two-run shot in the third. The runs came off Diamondbacks starter Ian Kennedy who was an astonishing 15-3 before the game. My guess is that he hasn't started too many games against the Phillies. That was all I saw before the game was delayed. The delay lasted over two hours and my window to see some baseball this night was short. My NY bound train was due to depart soon, so begrudgingly, but not quite as begrudgingly as I expected, I left.
Here are some pictures of the beautiful Citizens Bank Park taken before the rains came. One of the nice touches, that I am seeing at many of the new stadiums, are the statues of past heroes.
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| Those puffy, white Jekylls soon turned into dark, scary Hydes. |
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| Steve Carlton |
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| Mike Schmidt |
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| Richie Ashburn |
Games:
August 19: Citi Field -- Queens, NY
Milwaukee 6
NY Mets 1
1) Going to the game with me was my sister Holly. We grew up together in northwest Ohio sharing bunk beds when we were younger and sharing laughs and friends as we got older. Now we live over 2,000 miles apart. I was looking forward to spending some time with her.
2) Seeing the Mets. They're like the "regular" people's team in New York. The Yankees have this elitism that comes with their history, traditional success, and $1000 seats. The Mets, on the other hand, seem to represent the rest of us that are more grounded and cater to those fans by continually struggling and keeping ticket prices reasonable.
3) Checking out Citi Field. The Mets old Shea Stadium was kind of a dump, which gave it a New Yorker style charm, but it was still a dump. I've heard many good things about the new stadium (completed in 2009) and was excited to report back about it to smart, pretty people.
4) Watching the Brewers. Milwaukee has built a strong team around Ryan Braun and Prince Fielder that seems to hit the ball out of the ballpark as frequently as they crack jokes. This year they added Zack Grienke to help their pitching and it has paid off. The Brewers came into the game the hottest team in the league losing only two games in the twenty-one.
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| Holly waiting out the rain with me |
The game was on a Friday night and we had a blast. Early on the rains came and delayed the start for two hours. This marked the fourth straight game with rain (Yankees/cancelled, Red Sox/played through, Phillies/delay). Holly and I found a sheltered picnic table, bought some beer and sat down to wait it out. I enjoyed sitting there talking to her. It's not too often that I get to do that anymore. Holly has grown into an interesting and lovely young woman with the ability to captivate anybody within earshot (or eyeshot). At times I could hardly believe that I was sitting across from my little sister from Ohio.
We had bought tickets for the 500 level. After the delay we decided to try our luck getting some primo seats closer to the action. Holly and I walked around as I tried to sweettalk different ushers into letting me get some good pictures for my blog, but I wasn't getting anywhere. Eventually I saw an usher talking to a supervisor. I made a beeline for the them and asked if they were letting people without lower level tickets into the good seats on account of the rain delay. The supervisor said no, but then took a look at Holly and politely offered us two tickets from his pocket. They were some pretty sweet seats.
The game itself was not much of a competetion. The Mets didn't play too well while the Brewers did what they do best, score. They got out to a 6 run lead and never turned back. One got the feeling that they would've scored more if the Mets ever really threatened. Highlights of the game included: Ryan Braun being ejected for arguing balls and strikes, the Met fan behind us leaving because the Brewer fans irritated him so much ("Why the hell are there Brewers fans here? How the f*** does that happen? Shut the hell up!"), and when an inside fastball to Prince Fielder caused a bench clearing "meeting" on the field.
Games:
August 21: Nationals Park -- Washington D.C.
Philadelphia 4
Washington 5
At the beginning of August I was in Denver and watched the Phillies win in extra innings after hitting a two-run homer with two strikes and two outs in the ninth inning. I enjoyed the drama but I disliked the result. What added to the bad taste in my mouth was the huge amount of Philadelphia fans in attendence. In Washington the scene was similar. In fact, the stadium was filled by so many Phillies' fans that attendance records were being set at the four year old Nationals Park. I was delighted to watch the tables turn on the National League's best team.
The Phillies scored what looked to be the game winning run in the top of the ninth. With a 4-3 lead the Phillies inserted Antonio Bastardo to close the game. Normally that's a job for Ryan Madsen but Philadelphia manager Charlie Manuel must have thought he needed some rest (leading the division by nine games affords such a decision). Bastardo got the first two Nationals out with no problem. Then he quickly got two strikes on Ian Desmond. I was interested in leading the end-of-the-game exodus to the Metro (subway) station, so I was standing with my backpack on and one foot pointed towards the exit as Desmond ripped a line drive down the left field line for a game-tying home run. One would expect that a stadium would erupt with joy at such a happening. Not here. But it was just as pleasurable for me to watch all of the Philadelphia fans grumble and moan.
Another interesting thing occurred on this day. A rain delay. I guess there is nothing incredibly exciting about a game being stopped while waiting for precipitation to cease. However, this game marked the fifth straight game that I'd seen rain and the third straight delay that I had to endure. It was getting old.
Also, Roy Halladay was the pitcher for the Phillies. Roy is arguably the best pitcher in the game today. The Nationals were able to get to him early (which is often a team's best chance to score on a great pitcher) and score two runs. While Halladay found his groove the Phillies took the lead. It looked like it was all over because Washington would have too much trouble trying to score against Doc. But the rains came and caused a long enough delay for the Phillies' starter to tighten up and risk injury by coming back out to pitch. So Philadelphia replaced him with Michael Schwimer.
Schwimer, you see, had never pitched in a major league baseball game before. Making his debut even better was that the 25 year old was born in Fairfax, VA which is about a half an hour's drive west of D.C. I imagined the rookie talking to all of his friends and family before the game about his slim chances (Halladay usually needs no relief) to actually throw some pitches, but for them to come and cheer him on just in case. Well, just in case is sometimes just the case.
The first batter Schwimer faced was free swinging, 24 year old second baseman Danny Espinoza. The home town hero missed on his first pitch. Ball one, but more importantly the first pitch of his major league career had been thrown. It was a ball, so what. Now he could get down to business and focus. I figure the kid had visions of striking out the side on nine pitches and being lifted off the field by his new teammates. While in reality he was probably going through his mechanics in his head, "Find your target, push off, hit your slot, follow through, breathe, never mind your sweaty palms, tips on the seams..."
Family, friends, coaches, rabid Philly fanatics and dosile Nationals' supporters leaned to the edge of their seats to see what the rookie had out there. Could he get a major league batter out? Would he be able to throw a strike? How fast can the kid throw? Does he have a curve ball? Standing high atop the mound - the highest point on the whole field, a crowned field that slopes away from the pitcher's domain - must feel like straddling Kilamanjaro. All alone, with the chatter of the stands an unrecognizable muffle hushed by both focus and distance, the only voice a pitcher usually can hear is his own. It is a running inner-dialogue encouraging, critiquing, reinforcing, and helping the pitcher make his way through an opposing lineup of the top baseball players in the world. To know what this voice is saying is to know a pitcher's secrets; to know the secret of pitching. That's why I'm dying to know what it was saying as he watched Espinoza recognize the pitch as a strike, ready his hands, bite down on his tongue, stride towards the ball, swivel his hips, swing the polished piece of ash in his hand, and connect for a home run over the right field fence.
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| Good |
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| The great Halladay warms up before the game |
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| The Capitol in the distance |
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| 5th straight game with rain |
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| Philadelphia? Nope, this game was in D.C. (Impressive lineup though) |
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| The Nationals' Ryan Zimmerman crosses home for the winning run |
Trains:
August 21-22: Silver Meteor -- New York to Washington D.C. to Miami (28 hours, 1389 miles)
It was a pretty good sized rat that went scurrying along in front of me and nobody else. That's because it was 5:30 in the morning, Sunday morning in Brooklyn. At such an hour it's just you against the rats. "They don't eat, don't sleep. They don't feed. They don't seethe ... they don't compare."
And it's a lonely feeling to be in such a big city, faced only with the incomparable. That's what a lot of New York is after all, relatively speaking; your shoes vs. mine; this picture vs. that; Yankees vs. Mets; my life vs. yours. But New Yorkers do these comparisons sneakily and unconsciously, usually only to other New Yorkers. They are experts at it. After all New York is the center of the judging universe; music, art, fashion. These industries revolve around New York like Mercury, Venus, and Earth do the Sun. Unfortunately, asteroid belts aren't in season.
Standing alone on the subway platform, just me and the rats, I felt more at home than I did at the party the night before. It's not that I didn't have fun or don't like the people. I do and I am glad I was there. I just feel more comfortable with the rats. I can understand the rats. They're simple. Maybe there's something to be said about how the rats feel at home with me too, just like any other human. To a rat it doesn't matter how long I've lived in the city, or better yet, which part of the city. And they surely don't suggest to do your thinking for you, which is something I've experienced too frequently in New York. But I want to be clear, I don't enjoy the company of rats more than humans...on the whole. Some humans are just easier to understand than others.
Of course I'll admit that I probably put the New Yorker on guard too. Excited to show off their city, I come at them guns a blazin', both barrells full. One full of question and the other loaded with challenge. This is primarily because I want to climb inside the head of the New Yorker, to understand them like I do the rat. I'll also readily admit that I come to the conversation biased against the city, with its taste-makers and obnoxiously visible plutocracy. Perhaps they're as uncomfortable with me, an outsider, as I am with them.
I love my sister Holly more than I can write here. Departing hurts every time. But once I come to terms with leaving her behind, I love pulling away from the city and feeling the tranquility return. I breathe, regain form and know that once again, I'm myself and not a comparison.
Leaving the rats behind I headed south from Penn Station towards Washington D.C. where I was going to catch the Sunday afternoon ballgame between the Nationals and the Phillies. The Phillies are very good, and because of that their fans have gone berserk over the past few years. In Philadelphia and its nearby stops all of the official team sponsors boarded. The Phillies' division rival is only about two hours by slow train (the Acela Express can get folks there in half the time but its more expensive), so many fans were making the ride down.
For numerous reasons, the east coast is not somewhere I'd like to live. But I am extremely impressed with the transportation set up and the use of trains. They get it out here. Without researching I'd guess that trains run between Boston and Washington D.C. ten times a day, and these trains are full. Once at the station (Boston, NY, Philly, D.C.) all one has to do is hop aboard one of the many local trains, usually in the form of subway, to get where you need. It is simple, inexpensive, clean, and efficient.*
So the Philaelphia contingent was using the train to go see their team play against Washington. Smart people. Maybe I've sold Philly phans a little short. Indeed, most of the folks I've met clad in Roy Halladay jerseys or Mike Schmidt t-shirts have been not only knowledgeable, but more importantly, friendly.
After the game, and after a couple of hours wandering through my favorite train station so far (Washington's Union Station), I set out on the Silver Meteor for Miami. Immediately a change from the other trains was noticable, color. This is a touchy subject and I get nervous writing about it. Not for fear of expressing my observations and opinions, but for being misunderstood. Or worse, for having incorrect assumptions assigned to a harmless fact. There are more black and brown people than white people on this train and that is the first time this has happened.
Another thing just happened for the first time. Sitting here in Jacksonville I was approached by a United States' Immigration officer. She snapped off her sunglasses, spit out her gum and shooting lie detectors into my eyes asked me for my citizenship. I said,"U.S.". She said, "Thanks, have a good day." Is it cynical to believe that she was just using me to prove to the rest of the train that she was not a profiler?
I just watched a portion of Amistad the other day and am pretty sensitive to issues surrounding race and immigration right now. So I'll change course a click, keep my ranting to a minimum, and only say that the line "what's good for business is good for the country" was the same one used by the confederacy on the Union.** That argument, by itself, cannot stand. So why, free from a healthy and truthful context, is it still used?
I knocked myself out from Richmond to Savannah. Early in the trip I had trouble falling asleep on the trains, so I purchased some Unisom to help me nod off. That shit sure does the trick. I passed out all night and finally awoke around 8am. I sauntered down the aisle and made myself comfortable in the lounge car. This is where I like to spend my alert hours. I usually bring a book, my laptop, and my headphones.
When I'm not reading, writing or listening to music I'm meeting people. I usually enjoy it very much. I understand train people. On this day I met Babs and her two sons Eugene and Elliot. They were fun and we played cards to pass the time. Gene is one helluva "Go Fish" player. I think we played eight games and he was victorious in seven. "What's your winning percentage?" I kept asking the boys math questions. They were a smart pair. Babs and I tired of "Go Fish" and decided it was time to teach the boys gin rummy. They picked up on it pretty quickly and seemed to enjoy taking part in an "adult" game.
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| How many nickels in a dollar, Elliot? |
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| Babs teaches gin rummy |
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| Everybody say "Go fish!" |
*One of the arguments I frequently hear against public transporation is the issue of safety. On the trains and buses that I've taken in now 10 different cities I've never felt threatened or unsafe.
** Thanks Ani.
Post:
Picture Pages
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| The Citi Field Rotunda |
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| My sister Holly giving a hug to Nick Cannon |
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| Holly and I |
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| On a NYC bicycle parking station |
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| Baseball Games, Trains & Low Automobiles |
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| Modelo Donkey |
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| Chia bust |
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| Ryan and Holly |
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| Philadelphia: where people drink to cope with living in Philadelphia |
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| Breakfast vantagepoint at DC's Union Station |
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| Phillies fans in Washington |
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| More Philadelphia fans in Washington |
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| In DC's Union Station |
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| The Station in Miami |
jt said...
