A week of luxury in Florida left me lethargic. I just didn't want to leave. Rallying my energy to see Atlanta, Baltimore, New York (for the third time) and Pittsburgh over the next week was more difficult than I had anticipated. Where had my inspiration gone? This was my dream trip, right? Generally speaking this was the case, however I hadn't envisioned a crowded Greyhound bus when I first hatched my plan.
To get from Ft. Myers to Atlanta by train takes a little doing. There is no direct line. In fact the 39-hour trip would have involved three trains. I had to depart Tampa and head up the coast to Raleigh where I would catch a westbound train to Charlotte and another train back down to Atlanta. I decided to take the dirty dog instead.
I boarded the Greyhound in the early evening and tried to sleep through the night. We were packed in tight and I slept on and off for most of the time. I missed Amtrak.
I awoke for good in the very early morning to the voice of the man behind me on his telephone. He cackled, pontificated and ceaselessly bullshitted while doing what sounded like very little listening. Eventually I rubbed my eyes and came to terms with his lack of consideration. Once this was accomplished I was treated to an entertaining hour of eavesdropping. Sometimes you just have to play along with what you have.
He conversed a lot about God and angels. I was reminded that more people believe in angels than believe in evolution. He also laughed off a recollection about a co-worker that had the audacity to live a "greenie weenie lifestyle" to do his part to combat global warming. His lack of societal and global consideration was alarming, though not surprising given the behavior he was displaying on this warm Georgian morning. The answer to climate change, he blustered, was to be found in prayer. I wondered if his solicitations to God were where he developed his fondness for one-sided conversations.
I love the idea of angels. And I am willing to pray (to any God willing to listen) that humans are given the wisdom to help curb the human elements responsible for a warming world. But I wasn't very happy to be penned in by ignorance this morning. I couldn't wait to arrive in Atlanta.
Games:
August 30: Turner Field -- Atlanta, GA
Washington 9
Atlanta 2
From the inception of my trip Doug said he would be happy to accompany me to the Braves' game in his new hometown of Atlanta. Doug is my sister Holly's friend from her college days and he rolled out the red carpet for this one. The red carpet was a pair of tickets three rows behind the Nationals' dugout and all you can drink beer. At least it seemed that way. Everytime I looked over Doug was putting another Yuengling in my hand. Which is why it's no surprise that this game also produced the journey's high water mark for rowdiness.
Ross Detwiler felt the pressure early on. It wasn't the pressure of having the bases loaded with nobody out in the bottom of the ninth. Nor am I speaking of an abnormally high barometer reading or a Billy Joel song. The pressure was coming from three rows deep. Detwiler is a pitcher for the Nationals and was watching the game from the front step of the dugout. Doug pointed out to me that "Detwiler" was a great name to yell. So we immediately tested it. "Detwiler! Can we get a ball up here?" It sounded good so we kept at it.
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| Doug and me with Detwiler blocked from view by Doug's right arm |
In between innings Doug would walk up to the dugout and ask the Nationals' pitcher for a ball to give to his son. One of the funnier exchanges came when Detwiler told Doug that he didn't have any balls. Doug laughed graciously at the obvious joke before mentioning to the baseball player that he was standing in a major league baseball dugout and that there was sure to be a ball somewhere nearby if he'd only put in a little bit of effort.
So we had his attention. We also had the support of the whole section and couldn't go away empty handed now. All we had to do was bring it home. That's where google came in. I whipped out the iphone and discovered that Detwiler played his college ball for the Missouri State Bears. Doug loudly mentioned this fact in the direcion of the dugout causing a small ripple of chuckles among the other National's players, but nothing more than a smile came from Detwiler. We had to go deeper. We learned that he was born in St. Louis. Picking just the right moment, Doug waited for a hush in the crowd and then he uncorked the money line, "Hey Ross! You still a Cardinals fan?" The dugout reaction was priceless. Detwiler himself laughed, shook his head and then turned around and to glance at Doug. It was a look that can be best described as "you sons-a-bitches!" -- the friendly interpretation. The teammate standing immediately left of Detwiler patted his back and the two laughed together. Then, the man we'd been pestering for five innings stepped back into the dugout and out of sight. He returned carrying a baseball. During the seventh inning stretch he tossed Doug the ball.
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| Doug shows off his ball and the grip for his favorite pitch: the circle change |
As a contest this game wasn't much of one. The Braves' Jair Jurgens has been one of the league's top pitcher's this season, but not this night. Michael Morse and the Nationals beat him up pretty good while the Braves offense couldn't ever mount a substantial rally to climb back into the game. It didn't matter. I've never been that close to the field before and rarely have I had that much debauched fun. Thanks Doug, I had a fantastic time.
People:
Doug- here is a former pitcher that still likes throwing curve balls. He tossed me a couple great ones. One was in the form of third row seats at Atlanta's Turner Field. We sat right behind the Nationals' dugout, acquired a section a friends and got Doug's newborn son (Miles) a baseball. The other thing I wasn't expecting was to drink beer free of charge all night long. Going back in my mind I've counted 10 cold ones, but who the hell knows? It was enough to send me to the top of a chain link fence to pretend and snag Henry Aaron's 715th home run. It was enough to let us talk Julius, our post-game bartender, into plugging in Doug's iPod to the speaker system. It was enough make me attempt to record myself singing "You Are So Beautiful" and fail without even really starting. It was enough to have a hell of a good time. I would've liked to meet Doug's wife and son, but there just wasn't enough time. Maybe next trip.
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| Doug's Four Seam Fastball |
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| The Slider |
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| The Circle Change |
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| The Meatball |
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| Scaling the fence to rob a landmark home run |
Trains:
August 31: Crescent -- Atlanta to Baltimore (14 hours, 674 miles)
There's not a whole lot to write about this train. I boarded just after 8pm in Atlanta. I was exhausted from a full day of Atlanta sight-seeing and a Doug-sponsored Braves-bash the night before. I spent an hour texting with a very smart, beautiful young woman that has somehow weathered my barrage of electronic courtings with enough enthusiasm intact to respond just as frequently. After saying good night to her I drifted off to sleep, cushioned on the left by a pillow-covered window and braced on the right by the body of a rather large woman that wobbled - like an egg on its end - into me throughout the night. I awoke to Washington D.C. and the monuments named after our first and third presidents. Soon after that we rolled into Baltimore and I bounded off the Crescent, excited for my day in a new city.
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| Washington's Monument rises above |
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| Baltimore's Penn Station with Jonathan Borofsky's controversial "Male/Female" visible in the left foreground. |
Post:
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 -- ending 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 thirty-eight 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.
Games:
September 1: Camden Yards -- Baltimore, MD
Toronto 8
Baltimore 6
I almost didn't make it to this one.
I arrived in Baltimore on The Crescent at 11 in the morning. The game was scheduled for 7:05. I had some time to kill so I got a coffee at the station and sat down to write a couple of blog updates and emails. Then I spent an hour at the Amtrak ticket window with Ms. Wilson booking tickets for the rest of my trip. Coordinating the schedules of the trains and the baseball games can try one's patience. However, Ms. Wilson is a friendly, smart, funny woman that was more than happy to methodically work through my requests. Thanks to her patience the process only lasted about an hour.
2 o'clock in the afternoon rolled around and I was hungry, so I decided to venture out of the station and into the city. I found a bar that looked just about right. Not too dark and seedy, but not well-lit and gimicky either. I took a menu, ordered a Yuengling, and settled in to watch the game.
"The game! What the f***?!" I sprinted the four feet from my table to the bar and asked its bearded tender if what was currently on the television was a repeat of last night. He said that it wasn't and what was currently airing was today's game. Dutifully pressing on through my air of bemusement, the bartender courteously explained that the Orioles had moved the game up to a noon start time because of the Baltimore Grand Prix that weekend. "But it's the bottom of the 5th?!" I hollered at nobody in particular. I swear the bartender sneered and replied, "You supposed to play in it or something? They could probably use you." Although I considered saying that the Orioles already have a pretty good centerfielder, I was too distressed to blurt out anything besides what it was that I was actually doing in Baltimore. I pleaded for information regarding the fastest possible way to get to the stadium. The bearded man behind the bar just laughed, but the cute waitress that had brought me my beer had been listening the whole time. She walked over to me and started physically pushing me towards the door. The whole time we were shuffling away I kept trying to hand her money for the beer I had taken one sip of. "No, no, no. You keep it. You've got to get there! Now, you've gotta take the light rail. What you need to do is take a right out of here and find Maryland Street. Then, ..."
I could have kissed her. Only because of her thoughtful direction was I able to find the light rail station quickly and easily. I boarded the slowest train I've ever been on and learned that due to race preparations it wouldn't take me all the way to the stop I needed. I asked a man next to me what to do. He was happy to tell me. Because the train was so slow and seemed to stopped twice a block, we engaged in a conversation about the poor Orioles and how it was such a shame to have a pitiful team playing in such a beautiful ballpark. We diverged on Howard Street and he wished me luck on the rest of my journey.
It was the bottom of the 7th when I arrived on the scene. The scalper - yes there was a scalper still there - offered me a ticket for $15. I told I'd give him $5. He said, "You're killing me. I've gotta make money." I said, "Then make five bucks." I gave him a five, he gave me the ticket and I marched in entering at the centerfield gate.
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| The corridor beyond the centerfield gate |
I loved it immediately. A long, wide, outdoor corridor runs beyond right field lined by a fence that fans can peer through to watch the game. This fence separates the walkway from the seats. The entire other side of the corridor - the side furthest from the field - is the western facing exterior wall from an enormous old warehouse. Doors of team gear shops, bars, and history museums pepper the side of the old building. It's the same wall that Ken Griffey Jr. smoked with a batted ball during the 1993 home run derby. At 465 feet from home plate, this is the farthest a ball has ever been hit at Camden Yards and a tiny baseball-sized plaque memorializes the event. As I entered in the bottom of the seventh the walkway was empty, except for lazy employees and quiet merchandise hawkers, presumably tired from another slow day at the park.
I took a seat in the right field stands to watch the end of the inning. I saw the ageless Vladimir Guerrero ground out to shortstop, scoring a run to tie the game at six. Maybe I'd get to see extra innings and my tardiness wouldn't be such a big deal?
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| The view from right-center |
At the end of the seventh I hightailed it towards foul territory and seats closer to the action. I stopped to get one of the better hotdogs I've had in any park. It was covered in a special sweet chili sauce and fried onions. The dog was really quite delicious and I finished it from the comforts of a seat in the front row of the second level -- first base side. It was from this seat that I watched the Blue Jays' badass rookie third baseman Brett Lawrie hit a homerun far over the left field wall to give Toronto back the lead.
I finished the game in one of my favorite places to sit: top level and directly behind home plate. I discovered the beauty of these seats a couple of years ago with my friend Nate. We were interested in getting some cheap tickets for a Rockies' game in Denver. Upper levels and bleacher seats are always the least expensive. But if you can grab some nosebleeds right behind home, the beauty of the game is in full effect: an infield in choreographed motion for the wheel play, a perfectly executed hit and run with the ball dribbling through the temporary hole between first and second (a hole created by the second baseman running to cover the bag the runner was seemingly attempting to steal), the dramatic build-up to a runner at third tagging and racing the outfielder's bullet to home, or seeing the exact moment a runner decides to try and stretch a double into a triple. All of these things can usually be seen from anywhere in the park, but it's the bird's eye view that enhances their elegance. It has something to do with all nine defensive players, the whole field, the scoreboard, all the fans, the pigeons in center field, the hot dog and peanut vendors, lefties and righties warming up double-barrelled in the bullpens, and the buildings/world beyond the stadium all available for the eyes to choose from; and having a strong enough understanding of the game to know precisely where to look for what.
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| The catcher has something to say |
I'm glad I made it to Camden Yards, even if for just three innings. It was a familiar place somehow. I would very much like to go back again someday and next time I'll arrive with the ushers -- in plenty of time to watch batting practice from the front row of the left field seats, with my glove. And I'll catch a ball off the bat of some over-paid slugger. A man that gets to do for a living what I still, at age 34, use visions of to put me to sleep on restless nights. It's true. And the thing is that many of these daydreams occur in the old Tiger Stadium. Camden Yards is the closest reminder I have found to that grand place at the corner Michigan and Trumball.
Bike:
Sept 2: Brooklyn to Manhattan over the Williamsburg Bridge (10 miles)
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| On the Williamsburg Bridge |
I can't believe it took me a month to get back on a bicycle. Finally getting out again and seeing a city from a bike seat was great. I hope it's not another month until it happens again.
Leaving my bicycle in Ohio was difficult for me. I had this vision of my trip going smoothly on the trails and rails. The purity of this vision was disrupted, obviously, by not taking the bike along with me for the rest of the tour. To ease my mind I had planned on using other people's bikes (rentals or friendly loans) to see some of the cities I'd be visiting. Between all of the rain and writing during most of my free time it hadn't happened that way. So when Holly suggested that we borrow some bikes I jumped at the suggestion. "Over the bridge!" I excitedly texted back. We had a plan.
Holly lives in a gallery that houses seven other humans. These folks, including Holly and her boyfriend Ryan, have compiled quite a stack of bikes to choose from. We asked her roomate Mika if we could use any of them and she told us to take our pick. Holly broke out the air pump and we inflated the tires on four different rides, trying them all out. Finally we decided on two suitable conveyences and set out for the East River.
Holly led the way. Bushwick and Williamsburg have been her turf for years now and she took us past some parks (including McCarren Park and the track where I trained for my marathon), down Olive Street and we eventually meandered to East River State Park. This is a nice spot on the water where they've erected a huge stage for summer concerts. I just missed Sonic Youth by a few weeks... son of a bitch.
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| At the East River |
Next was the Williamsburg Bridge which would help transport us up over the East River while taking us from one world into a completely different one. Riding over bridges is awesome. Especially in New York City, riding over bridges is awesome in the truest sense of the word. I was awestruck at the site of the gargantuan metropolis that lives and breathes on its own. It's the Frankenstein of cities. Like the universe through the lens of Hubble, everywhere you look, no matter how precise or focused, is a vital system of transportation, residence, or exchange. Just the modes of transportation I could see numbered in the dozens: ferries, cargo ships, tug boats, canoes, kayaks, pontoon boats, house boats, helicopters, jet airplanes, propeller planes, hydroplanes, cars, minivans, commercial vans, semi-trucks, trains, blimps, buses, horses, bicycles, motorcycles, rickshaws, pedestrians...
Manhattan was fun on bicycles, but we didn't know where the hell we were going. I mean, we had a destination, but we hadn't a clue on how to safely arrive there. We were headed for the Whole Foods in the Lower East Side to get some lunch. It was here that I took the lead. Later than sooner we found our spot and parked ourselves at a park that I believe is named after Sarah Roosevelt.
I went to do the shopping while Holly watched our rides. I purchased a salad for Holly, a sandwich for myself, and some fresh fruit for the both of us. Lunch always tastes good after a little exercise. We sat there munching away and leisurely chatting while watching the world of Manhattan go by in front of us. I felt good enough to sit there all day, but we had to get going. In a few hours the sun would be going down and the Yankees would be hunting for blood.
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| Holly - along with the other humans racing the sundown - looks over her shoulder to assess the situation |
Games:
September 2: Yankee Stadium -- Bronx, NY
Toronto 2
NY Yankees 3
A Friday night in the Bronx never felt so good. Back in October 2002 I lived in the Bronx for about a month. I didn't like it. I remember spending consecutive weekends holed up inside the little apartment reading books, afraid to go out and encounter the pulsing negativity that was breathing in every single knook and cranny imaginable. The Great Gatsby was one of those books. I recall enjoying the enormity of the differences between the New York I was experiencing and the New York of Jay, Nick, Daisy and Tom. That was the only real enjoyment I had on those Friday nights and it poorly veiled my contempt for the city. Now, almost nine years later, the Bronx redeemed itself.
Holly and I arrived on the scene fully prepared to make up for the rain out we experienced just three weeks earlier. It was a Friday night in New York City so we smuggled some booze through the gates and took a pre-game lap of the stadium. I don't know what I was expecting, I don't believe I had really given it much thought, but when I walked through the concourse to look at the field I was shocked. Yankee Stadium is gorgeous. There was a lot of talk about how New York shouldn't have torn down a classic and I'm not going to enter into that debate here. But rest assured, they have built a majestic baseball cathedral in its place. After I regained my powers of speech Holly and I decided to make our way to our seats in what is traditionally one of the rowdiest places in all of baseball to watch a game: the Yankee Stadium bleachers.
There was a major problem though and it wasn't the fans. We settled in to find that our seats had an obstructed view. Because of a very poor outfield seating design, people sitting in sections 238 and 239 can only see half of the field. Right field is completely blocked from view by a sports bar... the dumbasses. At the same time I was noticing this flaw a whole little league, cleats and all, rushed down into our section. Coupled with the obstructed view, the wave of descending kids quickly helped Holly and I to seek another location. However, because our total party was going to number five and the Yankees draw a lot of fans to the park this was not very easy. We had to move two more times before eventually finding a good spot that we wouldn't be kicked out of.
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| View from the good bleacher seats |
The other members of the party were Stephanie, Kim, and Stacy. Party is the appropriate word to describe this group of young ladies. Rip-roaring and ready to go, these lovely New Yorkers added an obvious element that had been missing from most of my previous games. I felt like the luckiest guy in the city. Or maybe that's just because I kept winning "pass the hat".
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| The ladies: Stephanie, Stacy, Holly and Kim |
Pass the hat is a game that I was introduced to at Wrigley Field years ago. The way it works is simple. Any number of people can play, although I think it works best with five or six. Everybody starts by putting in a dollar. The person who goes first (order can be decided in a number of ways, we used odds and evens) holds the hat in his or her hands or lap while rooting strongly for the batter at the plate to get a hit. If the hitter succeeds then the hat holder wins all of the money in the hat. If the hitter doesn't then a dollar is put it and the hat is passed on to the next player. A push occurs when the batter walks, is hit by a pitch, or sacrifices and no money is lost or gained before the hat moves on. Holly and I were the big winners today.
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| Waiting to collect |
Holly and I were big winners -- much like my friend Jack and I were back in 2003 when we were prevented from leaving Chicago because of lack of money. Jack was due to receive a direct deposit into his checking account in a day or two, so we crashed on some couches and spent our last dollars on tickets to a White Sox game. Loaned a couple clams to start, we played pass the hat. Sure enough Jack won almost every time, if not every time, and we had enough money to eat and drink until the deposit went through. I'm not sure why I didn't have any money at this point, but I didn't. I think I blew it all in Fargo on chicken wings.
An over-indulgence in chicken wings didn't happen tonight though and we watched the Yankees squeak out a victory thanks to some outstanding defensive outfielding. I enjoyed telling Holly how Andruw Jones, the Yankee right fielder is a former Gold Glove center fielder that has now been shifted to right to make room for the amazing Curtis Granderson. Jones, although not as great as he used to be in Atlanta, still patrols the outfield very well and flashed his fielding chops throughout the night making a great leaping catch against the wall in the fourth and later a sliding grab. He wasn't to be outdone by the other outfielders however. Granderson and left fielder Brett Gardner also made several exceptional plays. On back-to-back occasions Gardner dove to his right at full speed to make a catch, the second of which was the first out of a double play. He also added a big two-run home run to tie the game in the third.
One of the more exciting moments for me, on a night filled with many, came before and during the ninth inning. Watching the incomprable Mariano Rivera enter the field from the bullpen, take the mound as easily as he took care of Blue Jay batters, and notch his 596th career save in 1-2-3 fashion was really very special. It's hard to believe that Rivera is still, at the age of 41, as good, if not better, than he has been his entire career.
Other highlights of the night include: watching four or five Blue Jays' fans ejected from the stadium to a chorus of jeerings and boos; a subway ride away from the park where I briefly morphed into "Stephtue Kowalski, the crazy Polish soccer player"; a finger-snap-filled version of Take Me Out To The Ballgame; photographing my blog card in some in-ter-es-ting places; a Brooklyn rooftop at 3am; and a little bit of Curtis Mayfield on the jukebox.
Trains:
September 5: The Pennsylvanian -- New York to Pittsburgh (9 hours, 444 miles)
The Pennsylvanian starts in New York City and crosses the Delaware into Philadelphia before becoming one of the more beautiful train lines I've taken. It stretches out to the Susquehanna, following it for miles and miles before passing through Altoona and Lewistown. It continues through the Appalachians, rolling and rocking past Latrobe before finally coming to rest in Pittsburgh.
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| A hill rising on the far bank of the Susquehanna |
It had been awhile since I'd boarded a train in the morning with all day to stare out the window and see the land. Now I could see the Pennsylvanian countryside, in stark contrast to the crowded streets of Manhattan, rolling past my window. I liked it. There were wooded hills, small tree-lined creeks, wide smooth-surfaced rivers full of boats and floating people, tiny towns and even the occasional city. I wondered about what it was like to live down the country road that connects Huntingdon and Tyrone or on the banks of the Susquehanna. Did these people yearn to get out like I yearned to be in, if just for a day? Was it where they were and always wanted to be? Was it where they were and never want to be again? How long had they and their families been here? Do they get pissed when it snows in March?
There's a lot to be said about the country or the small town life. Sure, everybody knows your business, but they probably care. And there is no doubt that I enjoy the anonymity of the big city as a traveler and observer. So why is it that I feel lonely when I am anonymous in the place that I live? Or, why is it that I feel good when I am recognized in the place I live?
Does it have something to do with where we've come from as humans? Most of our ancestors lived in tribes and small, social communities where the instinct of participation was just as valued, if not more valued, than the instinct of greed. Everybody performed a role to help the community function as one large organism taking care of what needed to be taken care of. And like grain to an Oak, it became part of how we grew. It must be the stationing of myself permanently against this grain that feels so intuitively wrong and unnatural. I want to help my community and I want to be recognized for it. Sprawling cities, computers and the automobile -- among other things -- have taken more and more of these opportunities away.
The goddamn automobile. What a blessing and a curse at the same time. We've become so incredibly prosperous from the automobile and have been able to lead lives so chalked full of adventure and convenience that we don't (or can't) recognize how it is failing us. I thought, looking out the windows at people that need automobiles to live, about what my life would look like without cars and I shuddered. Then I cringed as I realized that the obvious efficiencies provided by the automobile help blind us to its camouflaged deficiencies. Then, I waved out the train window at a couple floating down the river in tubes. They returned the gesture and my brain whirred - like the landscape outside - in a frenzied rush of hopefulness.
The pangs and incomplete thoughts continued on my ride towards Pittsburgh. I climbed out of the train car, through the station and out into the city. Pittsburgh. I pulled out my iPhone and headed in the direction of my hotel, weaving in and out amongst the skyscrapers and empty streets, thankful now for technological breakthroughs and the brains that produced them. I watched cars drive past and smiled at drivers that I crossed the street before. I do this frequently and many never smile back. Today my friendly gesture was reciprocated. I liked it. I tried to imagine a world without smiles. Bubbling with fantastical pessimism - and to the surprise of the hotel employees - I arrived at my night's destination on foot. I liked that too. I've always loved a good surprise.
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| Downtown Pittsburgh near the hotel |
Post:
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 damn thing was gaining speed very rapidly and becoming difficult to track. What I remember next was feeling 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 (whose 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."
Anonymous said...
Very interesting story. I like your word choices.
Sherry.Leady said...
Laura Hinkle was tetherball queen at my grade school. I could never beat her - even got my dad to install a tetherball pole in our backyard so I could practice.
Well, in my case, practice did not make perfect. So, my motto is "just say no" to tetherball!!!
I liked your story a lot, Steve.
Games:
September 5: PNC Park -- Pittsburgh, PA
Houston 1
Pittsburgh 3
I bought an umbrella for $10 in the lobby of the Omni William Penn Hotel and started out on foot for the stadium. All I had to do was follow sixth street, cross a yellow bridge (one of five I could see), and I'd be at the park. The rain was coming down when I arrived from New York the night before and it hadn't stopped yet. According to the forecast it wasn't due to stop for another three days. Thank you very much Tropical Storm Lee.
Based on my experiences during the trip so far I was pretty sure the game wasn't going to be played, which bummed me out. There were many parks that I'd been looking forward to seeing since I conceived of this idea back in April. Among those, there were a select few that I was most excited to experience. PNC was one of those. That's why, even though my spirits were down, I trudged through the city and across the Allegheny River hoping for a break in the weather.
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| View from Sixth Street Bridge |
Believe it or not, it came. The sun never popped out and it never truly stopped precipitating, but the rain slowed enough for all nine innings to be played. When I found my way inside the stadium at 1:20 the tarp was still covering the field. By 2:00 the grounds crew was out making the field ready for play and the game began an hour behind schedule.
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| The grounds crew readies the field |
Through a steady drizzle Pirates' pitcher James McDonald kept the Astro hitters befuddled. His only hiccup came when he walked his mound-stalking adversary, the opposing team's Henry Sosa on four straight balls. Sosa ended up scoring the Astros only run when Pirates' rightfielder, Jose Tabata, misplayed a deep fly ball hit by Houston's Jose Altuve which turned into a run scoring triple. Other than that McDonald was masterful. Granted it was the Houston Astros, a team that George Plimpton could probably beat. But that shouldn't take away from McDonald's awesome performance. He found the strike zone, worked quickly, and earned his team a home field victory.
The Pirates' home field seats around 38,000 fans. I like this. I like small stadiums. I like big ones too (Yankee Stadium comes immediately to mind), but I usually prefer the smaller ones. PNC Park is cozy, intimate, situated snuggly against the Allegheny River, and I don't think there's a bad seat in the place. The view of downtown out over right field is one of the best I've seen. Even the most casual of observers will notice the Sixth Street Bridge and the fascinating architecture of buildings like PPG Place and the Byham Theater. Adding to these charms is the easy accessibility of all parts of the stadium, the friendly atmosphere created by die hard Pirate fans, good cheap foods, humorous music selections (Mr. Sandman was played when the grounds crew was called out to throw dry dirt on the mound), and the affection naturally generated by a perennial underdog.
Picture Pages V
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| The Omni in Atlanta |
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| The Alters: from NY to Hawaii and back to NY |
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| Two batters? |
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| Umpire impersonation |
