A week after my first All-Star game and I still miss Jeter

It has been a week now since my Dad and I took in the midsummer classic in Phoenix and I'm still buzzing from it. What a great time! The game was a very special event that generated an energy in me I'm finding too difficult to describe. I loved seeing all of the best players (in theory anyway) and being there with the guy that taught me about the game. But for all of the excitement and wonder that I experienced, as I look back there is something else that I need to say.

For many years now there has been talk of the game of baseball and the waning of its popularity. In Phoenix that was difficult to detect; baseball appeared alive and well.  For good reason too. The Major League Baseball All-Star Game is one of the best sporting events there is. Unfortunately that appearance of vitality was soon tainted. Where was Derek Jeter?

The tradition of the All-Star game in baseball is rich and seminal. Other sports attempt to emulate baseball's invention, but fail to capture its spirit. There are several reasons for this, but none more prominent than the fact that baseball, at its core, is a game of individual contests. Sure each player is on a team and teammates help each other win.  But the essential ingredient in baseball is the contest between pitcher and hitter. The All-Star game showcases the pinnacle of these contests: the best hitters against the best pitchers.  It's a lineup of individual greatness taking on individual greatness for three straight hours. Speaking strictly as a fan of the game I can't think of anything much better than watching these greats compete against each other (Carl Hubbell vs. Babe Ruth, Warren Spahn vs. Ted Williams, Roy Halladay vs. Derek Jeter?).

Wait, no Derek Jeter this year. I know A LOT has been written about this and it is old news now, but I wanted to add my two cents.  I love the game of baseball and enjoy people that play it well. I respect Derek Jeter for all that he has accomplished and think he has been very good for the game. I like the game so much that I traveled over 1,000 miles to celebrate its top acheivers.  Bodaciously, my father joined me in the celebration from over 1,000 miles away in another direction. There were many things about the game that we were looking forward to.  But as the date approached we kept talking about one thing: will Jeter have 3,000 in time for Phoenix? I was so excited to have an opportunity to see and honor a 3,000 hit man on the stage built for the greatest active players, that I actually watched Yankees' games. Then he got it, and in such dramatic fashion that I was swept away and became a Derek Jeter fan.

But that didn't last very long. Derek Jeter, a man who makes millions upon millions of dollars playing the game of baseball, an enterprise supported solely by the appreciation of its fans, did not show at the one event intended to celebrate those very fans and the reverie they have for their favorite players.  I've never had any sympathy for a baseball player that doesn't come to the All-Star game. Especially ones that were voted in by the fans. Especially ones that were voted in by the fans and just got their 3,000th hit. Especailly ones that were voted in by the fans, just got their 3,000th hit, and don't have the on-field performance to warrant a position in the lineup (but have been voted in all the same because the fans want to SEE you).

Come on Derek, it's the All-Star game. It is one of those special things about baseball that sets it apart from the other sports. How is baseball supposed to retain its spot as the national pastime if one of its greatest ambassadors won't even show up?

Advancing the punners

Here's a list of train puns that I have used in actual conversations since the beginning of my trip:

"I'm sorry, I'll try to conduct myself a little more professionally."

"I'm not railing against the use of all automobiles."

"Did I get you off track? Did you lose your train of thought?"

"I like how you express yourself."

"Maybe we can engineer another time to meet up."

"I'm not really trained in that field. You know, not my line of work."

As the trip goes on, and more puns are discovered I will add them to the post.

*Told to me by Blue Derkin: "How do you gauge what the best train lines are?"

Olvera Street

I spent a day on Olvera Street wandering, watching, and waiting for my next train. On the site where Los Angeles was founded I saw:

Beautiful young Hispanic women in Nirvana tank tops, holding hands with boys in Dodger caps.

Lovely, older Mexican women wearing long velvet skirts with turquoise eyes standing four in a circle around a huge stone, kneading and pressing a large mound of dough into soft, white tortillas.

Young children held captive in the arms of a parent. Then, at last wiggling free and bolting, unrestrained, to their new friend selling ice cream.

A stunning young lady, helpless and confused, breaking into tears while standing in line for a taco; seeking an explanation from a knowledgeable friend. I could only wonder what uncompromising, apathetic, egotistic young punk could do such a thing. It's always that way in the eyes of a detached male. The other guys are all punks.

Austere ladies clutching open umbrellas, as colorful as their dresses, to block the midday sun.

Pale white tourists in floppy sunhats, draped with large-lensed digital cameras holding Fodor's U.S.A. books with their non-pointing hands.

A twenty-something redhead in pigtails and a bicycle helmet hustling across the bricks in search of who knows what.

Hardly any smokers. After 3 hours I saw my first two. Then, later I recognized another couple. It was the same two, they had just made a smoking lap.

A brother and sister fighting over control of the video camera. Sister won. They always do.

For 45 minutes I watched a traditional Aztec dance group in a public square just off of Olvera Street. I asked, through a translator, one of the performers about the dance and what it  meant to him. He replied that they were celebrating the creator (the sun) and showing appreciation for the world he has given them as a home. The dancers continue their traditions in an attempt to both keep their history alive as well as share some of their culture with the community.

7 Ways To Advance To First Base

1. A hit
2. A walk
3. Hit by pitch
4. Fielder's choice
5. Error
6. Dropped third strike
7. Defensive interference (bat touches catcher's mitt)

Thanks to Jack B, Jay and Holly T, Holly K, Jeanetta B, and Mike M (my old neighbor; how the hell are you?) for playing along.

The Vitalogy of Adventure

It seems like a long time ago, and I guess it was now. 16 years to be exact. July 8, 1995 at the Marcus Ampitheater in Milwauke, WI, full of excitement and curiosity, I experienced a Pearl Jam concert at the height of their popularity. 16 years is a long time. I mean it is hard to remember just how HUGE that band was in the early 90's.  Ironically, it was their railing against the blind faith of all that was huge that made them so huge; no more hugeness as usual.

Tickets were frustratingly hard to come by. Pearl Jam was fighting, in both Congress and the court of public opinion, with Ticketmaster over the $2 service fees the ticket giant was charging. In retrospect two bucks seems paltry. The band attempted to tour without using Ticketmaster.  The result was that the most popular band in the country could only schedule something like 7 shows all summer.  Like I said, tickets were scarce. But somehow I got a pair (row 20, dead center) and still remember my friend Jay coming up to me just outside of study hall saying, "I will drive to Milly-wau-kay."

Two others came along (Yoder and Peinert) for our little rust belt excursion. The four of us got to Milwaukee in record time. There were about five minutes when the mini-van wasn't going fast enough to activate the flux capacitor, slowing down because we missed an exit. It was during this time that Jay was pulled over for not using his turn signal while changing lanes. Oh Mr. State Trooper, if you only knew.

We drank beer in restaurants and smuggled booze into the show. We saw one of the best live acts of the 90's at their peak and yelled "F*** the USA Today" in a drunken show of punchless solidarity during "Not For You". We came back home and relived the trip over and over as the retellings got further and further from the actual truth. That was my first official (independent) adventure and something must have stuck.

Many more trips/quests/projects have followed. The next bigger and bolder than the last. Now here I am, 16 years to the day, embarking on my most challenging one yet. The way the excitement feels is the same and my curiosities still hold the reigns. For what seems to be the hundredth time I looked in the mirror this morning and said to myself "What the f*** have you gotten yourself into?" The only difference now is that a wry smile accompanies the end of the question.

First Pitch

Gary Numan throws out the ceremonial first pitch for my trip.

Baseball Games, Trains & No Automobiles (video)