Hope, Errors and Game Six

"This rabid loyalty also lends itself to opportunities for swelled hope. Although they are not officially eliminated from the hunt, St. Louis is not going to the playoffs this year. By looking and listening to the fans in the stadium it'd be hard to tell. They were adorable the way they clung to post-season hopes, watching and rooting for their team. While they carefully observed the happenings on the field with one eye, they kept their other eye on the out of town scoreboard, jeering the Milwaukee Brewers. I'm sorry to break you the bad news St. Louis, but not this year."

I wrote these words after the St. Louis game on September 11. That was foolish of me. I love the game of baseball and following and playing it over the years has reminded me time and time again that, in the immortal words of Yogi Berra, "it ain't over 'til it's over." This very true statement, that wobbles in the waves of its own simplicity, was hardly more evident than in game six of the 2011 World Series played in the very place where I had previously left hope for dead, scoffing at its persistence: St. Louis, Missouri.


Last night I sat on the edge of my chair for more than three straight hours as the Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals played one of the most thrilling baseball games I've ever seen. The St. Louis Cardinals for Pete's sake. I kept thinking, as the camera panned the often breathless crowd, about how I had dismissed the Cardinals and their chances for October baseball as hopeless during my visit to their home stadium. This same ballpark, surely filled with many of the same people as on September 11, was now hosting one of the great World Series' games. A game that acted as a transition, for fans and players alike, from the brink of certain despair to pure, incredulous joy.

Of course I didn't know at the time that it'd end up all hugs and kisses for St. Louis in the end. During the game however, I could easily recognize the wrap of hopelessness at the door. I watched on television. I found myself ignoring the knocks and, just like those people in the stands, hoping for a miracle. All of those wonderful St. Louis fans were inspiring me now and I thought about how beautiful it'd be if St. Louis came from behind to win. After all, they'd already come from 10 1/2 games back to improbably catch the Braves and squeak into the playoffs. Once in the playoffs they'd squarely defeated the two teams holding the best records in the National League. Why couldn't they come from two runs down with two outs and two strikes in the bottom of the ninth against the Texas Rangers?

They did just that. David Freese, down to his (and the Cardinals) last strike tripled to deep right, just over the outstretched glove of Texas rightfielder Nelson Cruz. Incredible. The drama was palpable. Alas! Texas is a very good team too and when Josh Hamilton hit a two run homer in the top of the 10th it seemed that all of our previous hoping was now in vain. A comeback couldn't possibly happen again, could it? I imagined that even the strongest of Cardinal fans was finally ready to succumb. Of course it did happen again and perpetuated, as I already said, one of the most thrilling games I've ever seen.

Games so incredible and filled with such dramatic moments can only occur in baseball. That's my belief and it's because there is no artificial time limit telling you when it'll be over. In fact, as the suspenseful games draw nearer to their finish the play seems to slow down and the contest between pitcher and hitter becomes magnified by the pitch-to-pitch anticipation. Additionally, without a clock a team can presumably bat forever as long as they do it well enough. Or a team can be stuck in the field forever if they can't pick up the ball. Of course these things don't even happen in Little League, let alone the World Series. But that is not the point. What is the point is that the game truly isn't over until it's over. And sometimes, sandwiched between those thoughts, is when a memorable experience can be shared.

As I hooted and hollered along with the other patrons at the Greeley Avenue Bar & Grill I thought about some of the other great baseball games I knew of and wondered if this one could possibly compare. Although there are many great baseball moments (Kirk Gibson's 1988 home run off of Dennis Eckersley for example), there are few games that can be hailed as classics. Interestingly, the two that first came to mind were also game sixes: 1975 Reds vs. Red Sox and 1986 Mets vs. Red Sox.

In a post-game telephone discussion with my dad we observed that a few specific circumstances must be in place in order for a game to be so dramatic: the game must be a World Series game, it has to be late in the series and one team (if not both) is facing elimination, the team facing elimination must come from behind, and as an added bonus: the come from behind team must be the home team. 

All three of the aforementioned games met the conditions. Now within those conditions there must be, among a variety of other scenarios, questionable managerial decisions; timely hitting; strong pitching; memorable plays and a dramatic finish. I wasn't around in 1975, but I've heard enough stories and seen enough highlights to know that all of these things happened. I'm of the opinion that the game between the Red Sox and Reds is still the greatest game ever played. From everything I've learned it was a perfect game. A hunch tells that is due to the glorification of reminiscence retold. I don't care.

Unfortunately last night's game and the one in 1986 were marred by errors and this is what generates a distinction. The memorable play in '86 was Mookie Wilson's grounder rolling under Bill Buckner's glove to give the Mets the victory and Buckner a life filled with suffering. In 2011 the memorable play was David Freese hitting a home run. Of course this is the very same David Freese that, in the top of the fifth, dropped a pop up that my sister could have caught; the most memorable of the five (five!) errors during the game. 

But reflecting on these three games and David Freese's transition from goat to hero, I realized something about errors and the very real opportunities they can create. For instance, I made an error in judgment when I wrote off the Cardinals back in mid-September. I could have easily gone back into the blog and erased what I had written; pretending that it hadn't occurred (not that it would matter to anybody but me), but I didn't. Why? Because it had occurred. Now, I realize that sitting and watching the Rangers vs. the Cardinals carries an added point of interest for me. I'm more connected to the World Series and the St. Louis Cardinals than I had previously thought. Sitting in a bar in Portland, Oregon I can easily remember those fans I talked to and how remarkably loyal and hopeful they were. Say what you will about the merits of sports spectatorship, but those fans are real people and I have very real memories of dismissing their hopes as fantasy. Here's the point: the sixth game of this year's World Series was extremely entertaining but, because of my error in judgment, I had a better time watching it than if I hadn't have erred in the first place.

More to come

I've finished my trip. Now, I'm back in Portland doing a mix of reflecting and readjusting. Some people probably call it decompression, but I call it feeling weird.

At this time I still have plenty more to write about. I want to catch up on all of the games I've seen, places I've been and people I've met. Over the last month I got pretty far behind. As the trip wore on it became increasingly difficult for me to keep up with the blog. I seemed to meet more people and have less time to write. It's also very true that I tired of writing on a daily basis. But all of this doesn't mean that I'm not looking forward to finishing, I am.

I plan on adding the rest of my adventures to the blog over the next month or so. For now I'd like to say thank you to all of the lovely friends, family and strangers that helped me along my way. The trip was a huge success only because of so many people's generosity and incredibly enjoyable because of my shared experiences. I'd also like to thank all of the people that have been following along with my blog, leaving comments and encouraging me to continue. It's been an unreal summer, incredible from start to finish.

Here are some pictures from one of the craziest weeks of the unreal summer (NYC on Sunday to Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, Chicago and finally Detroit on Friday):

The Pennsylvanian

Blogging in the lobby of the William Penn Hotel in downtown Pittsburgh

Wet Labor Day parade in Pittsburgh

My daily acceptance of the rain

Pittsburgh Pierogies (found at PNC Park)

PNC nestled up to the Allegheny

I took pictures of Chicago during a layover

Chicago River

Nice sky, hills, the Mississippi

 Me, Aunt Margo on the shore of Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis

The Chicago Skyline from the White Sox ballpark

Jay and Cory at the Tigers game

Comerica Park has a ferris wheel

Good Food

I'm hungry as hell. I remember saying that 16 hours ago. I was on a different train then, the Texas Eagle, which was taking me from Fort Worth to St. Louis. Since then I've eaten a pocket-sized snack pack of s'more flavored almonds and a very dry bagel with far too little cream cheese. 16 hours ago I was craving enchiladas, which is odd because I had mexican food, very good mexican food, the previous two nights in Texas. Although it is a tough task in our homogenized world of Wendy's, Chili's and Applebees, I like staying as true to the areas that I'm visiting as possible when I have a meal. In Fort Worth that meant mexican food.

Now I'm on my way to Kansas City, so that means barbeque. I couldn't be more excited to dive into a rack of tender baby back ribs smothered in way too much sweet and sour Kansas City barbeque sauce. I'm starving. I have Toto playing "Rosanna" live on my headphones and I'm too weak from hunger to change it. Okay, that's not totally the case. It's playing, I just don't want to change it. I have a soft spot for Toto, but they're no Huey Lewis and the News. So as long as I'm at my computer getting my 80's fix and famished I thought I'd mention some of my favorite meals I've had:

Al Franken's walleye - when I was in Minneapolis my aunt and uncle took me out to a place called the Green Mill. I noticed that there was an awful lot of walleye on the menu. I asked if that was a common meal in these parts and was met with a resounding affirmation. It wasn't like a Stuart Smalley Daily Affirmation, but I did learn that Al Franken comes into the Green Mill on Fridays to order the very same walleye dish that I had just ordered. I don't always agree with Senators, but it was fantastic.

El Farolito burrito - see the blog post "My Mission in the Mission"

*Burger in L.A. - Burgers are very American and I've had quite a few on my very American tour of baseball stadiums across the country. The name of the joint escapes me, but the best of the bunch was in L.A. with Blue and Tess. I don't know what, if anything, L.A. is known for in the cuisine world, but this was fantastic and I'd kill to have another one right now.


*Thanks to Blue's input for reminding me the name of the restaurant: Father's Office


Benny's chili relleno - The first thing I did when I got to Denver was drag my sister and brother-in-law to Benny's. It's not the healthiest option on any menu anywhere, but the deep fried relleno, stuffed with melted cheese and covered with green chili is arguably the reason for human existence. Once you've had this dish the meaning of life becomes clear: to enjoy it.

Pizza on the grill - My stepdad Dennis told me he was looking fo more flavor and purchased a charcoal grill when I was in Florida. The day after that he bought a grilling cookbook. We both identified the pizza as something we had to attempt. We coated the sides not stuck to parchment paper of our homemade pizza crusts with olive oil, and cooked them briefly. They stiffened above the heat of the charcoal enough to add our sauce and topings of cheese, mushrooms, peppers, onions, and whole cloves of garlic. We withered under the heat of the Florida sun enough to polish off a Yeungling every five minutes. I have a suspicion that pizza on the grill is now a new family tradition.

Indian food in the East Village - So four men stand on a set of steps that lead to four separate Indian restaurants, each gesturing and hollaring to passers by why their restaurant is the best. I was the guest so Holly and Ryan let me choose which one I thought would be best. "Ours is best!" "Look at our safety rating!" "I'll give you free wine!" "Free wine for all three of you!" I chose the one at the upper-left of the stairs. For a very affordable price we had more than a tablefull of traditional Indian delights: Samosas, Saag Paneer, Mango Lassi, Chicken Tikka Masala, and some things I've never had before.

Cheese enchiladas at Joe T Garcia's - Josh took me to a great restaurant in Fort Worth. As far as I know there are only four things you can order here: margaritas, cervezas, enchiladas, and fajitas. We sat outside in the comfortable courtyard full of fountains, trees, and yucca plants. There was no menu. I said that I had never been there before and inquired about enchiladas. I was told that the cheese enchiladas were excellent and that they'd been serving them since 1935. How can you argue with that? Along with the enchiladas came tortillas, rice, beans, guacamole, beef tacos, chips, and salsa. I would go back to Fort Worth someday just for this meal.

I am still hungry. We are slowly approaching the Kansas City station and I am beginning to ready myself for an attempt to assault a plate of ribs. There are more meals to mention, but I'm afraid that if I talk about food anymore I could harm myself by inflicting irreparable psychological and physiological damage.

Picture Pages IV

Mom mastered Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Tampa Bay with a barely visible Tropicana Field left of center

Dome sweet dome

Everglades

Dennis and I grill pizza. Yes, pizza. It was great.

Mom knits hats for the soldiers in Afghanistan

The Alters: from NY to Hawaii and back to NY

Riding on the Train

Rolling along through Wisconsin's sand counties and thinking of Aldo Leopold I surpass the 10,000 mile threshold for my summer tour of all the baseball stadiums. At this point of my trip the train has become a second home for me. As I move from city to city and from friendly couch to hotel bed, everything about my situation is constantly fluxing: the interesting people I meet; the strangers I rely on to not steal my laptop or food; the wonderful friends that take me in for a night or two (I wouldn't have made it halfway without you); the stadiums I see; the seats I choose to watch the game from; the teams that are playing; the transportation systems of the different cities... I realize that all lives are constantly changing, but usually there is a constant in those lives aside from the changing. For me it usually comes in the form of my place of residence and the people that I live, work, and play with. But now, for two months I've had only two constants and one of those is just a game. The other, of course, is the train. I thought I'd use this blog post to talk about the train and why I like it so much.

The sun is starting its descension into the western sky. Not quite dusk and no longer mid-afternoon, it's the time of day where the shadows begin to grow towards noticeable, just like the thoughts of scrumptious dinners. If the time was a month it'd be September: a time that's as full of the promise of the beauty ahead as it is full of reflections on the fun recently had. If it was a picture it'd be a polaroid out of the camera but not yet developed. If the time was a human it'd be trying to blow out all 50 candles, with gusto. And lucky me, I get to sit in the observation car of the Empire Builder at this time, to watch the beautiful Wisconsin countryside pass by.


The observation car is among the few different cars on every train, and not all trains are the same. Generally on the long, double decker, cross-country trains like I'm on right now there is a dining car where meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner) are served to those passengers that make reservations after boarding; an observation car that has chairs facing the large windows and where people come to hang out and socialize; a cafe car which is usually found below the observation car where riders can get drinks and snacks; sleeper cars where those with money spend nights in beds; and coach cars that seat the majority of ticketed passengers, two on each side of the aisle. Each of these cars provides an experience unique to train travel.

I like to spend most of my waking hours in the observation lounge. There are a number of different activites that I enjoy in this car based on how I'm feeling. Listening to music and staring out the window at the landscapes whizzing by is chief among them. The seats in the observation car are situated to provide easy viewing. I like to choose a music that fits both my mood and the scenery before kicking back and letting the senses take over. Some of the more memorable music/landscape combos have been: Yo la Tengo/NYC; Air/Sierra Nevadas; Neil Young/Canada; American Analog Set/Pacific Coast; Bob Seger/Iowa; Sonic Youth/NYC.

Other times I'll read or write. Although lately I've spent most of my time doing the latter. I started out excited to read books set in the different areas of the country that I was to pass through. For instance, I read Steinbeck's In Dubious Battle while I was in California traveling up and down the San Joaquin Valley. But as I journeyed on I found that I needed to devote more time to keeping up on my blog. Between writing about the different games and trains, the people that I've met, the bike rides I've taken, daily updates, ridiculous fiction, and the extent to which I enjoy listening to music and looking out the window I found that reading has slowly been getting squeezed out of the rotation. But, I still write frequently and the tables in the observation lounge act as excellent desks. Does that make my computer a desktop? A tabletop?

The other activity that I like to take part in is meeting new people. Although this can occur anywhere in the train, the lounge is where the talkers head off to and is really your best bet. There is usually no shortage of characters for the lone traveler to strike up a conversation with. In fact, since I've started typing this I have had two separate conversations. The last included two gentlemen on their way to Whitefish, MT from Buffalo, NY. They are meeting their wives, who decided to fly, for what sounds to be a fantastic vacation in the rockies of Montana. Just like that conversations pop up. Sometimes you can end up spending the whole rest of the trip meeting an interesting person and other times it's just a short Q & A then back to your business. I've met dozens of terrific folks that I'll have the pleasure of remembering for the rest of my life. And I hope that they remember me too.

When I'm not in the observation car I'm usually in the seat assigned to me in coach. The term coach has a negative association for most people because of airplanes. It is evident that comfort is not the number one priority for the airlines. Of course the speed and efficiency with which commercial jets transport people are the main attraction and they don't need to cater to their passengers' leg or elbow room. Trains, however, most certainly do and I'm a big fan. Amtrak puts two seats in the same amount of room an airplane has three. Often times the chair next to overnight passengers remains unoccupied thanks to the help of the conductors that assign the seats too. This is nice and can allow a rider that wants some shut-eye to spread out and doze undisturbed. But I've been on a few overnight trains with a person seated right next to me and it hasn't been too much of a problem because the seats are roomy and the leg room is more than adequate. Other nice features are that most chairs recline substantially, have leg rests to prop up your feet, and are equipped with foot rests on their backs totally tasked to take tired toes.

The feet do get weary from wandering around. But my mind seems to stay vital and curious. Maybe I was just born with a lively mind. Although I remember many times earlier in my life where I was bored. Not from a lack of things to do, but from a lack of personal interest. So maybe I've developed a thirsty brain. This seems to be a more accurate assessment, but I easily recall driving across country (or flying over it) and completely shutting off the curiosity engines and diverting all power to the biological drive center (eat/sleep/breathe). I say the difference is the train.

The train moves slowly from one geography to another. So does the automobile, but one doesn't have to drive the train. At all. Ever. Which, if one chooses, allows 100% of the passenger's energy to solely concentrate on the subtle changes from place to place. And you can forget about airplanes. What keeps my mind curious and sets trains apart from these other modes of transportation is the understanding, and full appreciation of, the journey as an experience rather than just a destination. It's as much about getting there as it is about where you are going. I think this can be said for a great many things and is true of life in general.

As I've traveled along I grew to know all these things individually and experience them multiple times. It's the comfort that comes with knowing what to expect (or what not to expect) that I've begun to crave. I look forward to every next train ride with all of the excitement and enthusiasm that I started my trip with, but now I've added a new dimension, that of reliable surroundings, to my pleasure. It's an interesting pursuit trying to balance the dynamism of the adventure - new, unknown and exciting - with the calm feelings of comfort that are provided by the familiar like a warm blanket. On my tour I've had no choice. I set the balance from the start: lots of adventure and a smidge of comfort. There is no doubt that returning to my own bed and a falling into a daily groove will feel nice. It's something I'm looking forward to immensely. But for three more weeks the train will continue to be my home away from home and I'm not sure if I'm quite ready for that to end.

A Story For Kate

It's not that I'm no good at tetherball, I just don't like the damn game. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh it goes. Who the hell wants to stop an old, grey, rubber ball - one that hasn't been played with in a generation - from wrapping itself around that wobbly little pole weakly cemented just under the unsymmetrical, oblong patch of woodchips that, motivated by Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign, were once placed there in a loving circle? Not me.

But sometimes you've got to do things that you aren't very keen to do in order to protect what's important to you. And that mischievous little shit was beating the hell out of me. It's not like it mattered much. There were no pretty women standing around watching me. There were no old friends nearby to rag on me like I was drinking Miller Lite. I just didn't want to lose to a ten year old. Is that wrong?

Okay, so I'll admit that I'm competitive. Maybe a little too competitive. Normally I wouldn't have a problem taking it easy on a child in a game of tetherball, or any other game for that matter. But when this "sweet little angel", who just happened to be named Damien, growled at me (growled at me!) in response to my earlier gesture of tetherball mercy I couldn't take it. I decided to let him hang around and hit the ball a bit before I turned it on and showed him who was boss. Some may think this plan is like a cat toying with its prey before it pounces for good. I chose to think of it as an example of my generous humanitarian spirit. But I ran into a snag you see. Damien was really, really good.

We started out batting the thing back and forth, back and forth, like good competitors. Honestly, I became bored with the proceedings: a volley of back and forth exchanges with neither player making any headway. So, in the interest of staying awake I "missed" and let one fly by. This provided a moment, a very brief moment, for me to understand that the was gaining speed very rapidly and becoming difficult to track. The next thing I remember is hearing a smack and seeing a giant purple dot hovering in the foreground of my field of vision. Then I heard the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of an old, grey, rubber ball wrapping itself around a wobbly little pole.

I realized that my nose was numb and I had water in my eyes before I felt the surge of pure contempt, wearing a back stage pass and advancing undetected under the pseudonym Testosterone Laced Adrenaline, racing through my veins. At the last possible second I reached up and stopped the ball from wrapping itself completely around the pole and started it on its long journey back to the other side. It's a good thing that there was a cord attched to the ball because I don't think Damien had the gumption to make it all the way to Sante Fe (which is surely where it would have finally ended up) to retrieve his stupid ball. I roared maniacally as the circles became smaller and faster until the game had ended. I grabbed the pole in my left hand and proved my dominance by ripping it from the ground. Proudly displaying my trophy above my head I bellowed to the heavens, "I am Steve, Lord of the Tether!"

It was actually a beautiful day, even with the purple dot obstructing my view of the bountiful apple orchards and peaceful magnolia trees. Damien (who's actual name is not Damien) was giggling at me for standing in place, swaying dizzily, as the tetherball wrapped itself close enough to signal his victory and my defeat. I smiled broadly at his shaggy, brown-haired head. He was a cute little guy, that's for sure. And he didn't have a malicious bone in his body. Holding his hands out, palms up and  shoulders shrugged he looked up at me and asked me to play again. I said, "Sure, I'd love to."

Top 9 Shortstops In My Lifetime

I just rolled into Baltimore and am sitting inside the train station fully excited to see Camden Yards tonight. Oriole Park at Camden Yards sparked a baseball stadium renaissance when it opened in 1992. For the decades prior to Baltimore's decision to return their home baseball games back to a comfortable and unique park the trend had been to play the game in boring, symmetrical, artificial turfed, all-purpose domes and cookie cutters. Camden Yards broke that mold and now there are only a few shitty stadiums left.

The other thing that crosses my mind about being in Baltimore is Cal Ripken Jr. The Iron Man played in a record 2,632 consecutive games and ended the streak voluntarily. He is also one of only eight players to hit over 400 homeruns while collecting over 3,000 hits. Cal played all 21 seasons for one team, the Baltimore Orioles. In today's game that is astounding as well. Ripken is the greatest shortstop in my lifetime, if not all-time. Here's a list I've compiled in the past 38 seconds of the top 9 shortstops to play during my lifetime:

1. Cal Ripken Jr.

2. Robin Yount

3. Alan Trammell

4. Ozzie Smith

5. Tony Fernandez

6. Omar Vizquel

7. Jose Reyes

8. Nomar Garciaparra

9. Jimmy Rollins


*Yankee fans might notice the exclusion of one of their favorites. To make my list players had to show up at all-star games.