So the plan was: Go to Philadelphia to see the Giants knock the Phillies around for three or four games.  Catch some art museums, eat the obligatory famous sandwich, catch some jazz, walk up the Rocky steps and then move on.  Check on all that.  We even saw Rocky himself in art museum.

CHECK on almost all of that.

For the Monday game, the first of four, we took a ride share down to the park named after a bank. I predict this will soon be the fate of all parks of all sports.  When we entered the stadium my wife informed the lovable security guy that we were siding with the Giants.

“Enjoy your loss!” he chirped.

Knowing that the Giants had just dominated the Braves with a three-game sweep, I marveled at his foolishness. At least until shortly after the national anthem.  Then the wheels came off rather quickly. Jeff Samardzija pitched like a guy with a need to punish himself.  The Phillies obliged with a combo of homers and base hits that seemed almost comical after a while. The Giants fans in 130 were not laughing. I started to resent not only the Phillies but the city of Philadelphia.  And then the state of Pennsylvania.  I paused my resentment train there.

Why? Because resentment was fast losing to the unstoppable joy of being in great seats watching baseball on a cool night in May. The fans of both teams were, after all, still fans of the game itself and in that regard shared that roughly understood bond of round ball devotion.  And pretzel love.  Everybody loves pretzels.

Even the old school usher, after complementing the Giants fan’s nice showing at the game,  offered that he hated seeing any pitcher twist in the wind. Perhaps he forgot about Jonathan Papelbon. But he was right. I’ve felt something approaching mild guilt for feeling deep joy over watching the usually flawless Clatyon Kershaw blow a healthy lead in the World Series. You don’t want to see people fail, per se. You just want to see their team lose.

And lose we did.  The Giants got swept. They got kicked. They were heckled. They fell down and got back up like Rocky but then fell down like Jerry Lewis.  They dropped the ball. Literally. It was depressing, embarrassing, and painful to watch. But I kept watching.  Enjoying our loss.  Well, at least enjoying the background of it. Like we were taking some rotten medicine wrapped inside a cheese steak.

Baseball?

Last night I caught a beautiful independent league game in Florence, Kentucky.  The River City Rascals went down hard to the home team, Florence Freedom.   11-3.  It was a hitter’s ballpark. Unless, of course, you are a Rascal.

I could happily regale you with tells of the perfect temperature, the solid home team  homers, the fabulous bathroom decor, the friendly locals, the great vibe, the acceptable eats, and the exciting game.

Instead, just a quick pregame pitch.

About ten minutes before the singing of the national anthem, the woman singing the national anthem decided to rehearse with her mic, somewhere off field. Unfortunately for her, and fortunately for those who show up early, the mic was live and broadcast to the entire crowd.  People heard the national anthem and got confused.  Do we stand? Hats off?  Where IS she? I stood up and removed my Giants spring training cap. I mean, it doesn’t matter if it’s early, that’s the national anthem she’s singing there pal, not Tie A Yellow Ribbon. 

Other folks started standing up.  Hats quickly off. Vets sternly saluting.

Some remained seated, unpatriotic and confused.

And then….she… messed up.  Bad.  Then messed up again.  She started back up in the wrong key.  And then cut it off completely right in the middle. Someone probably stopped her, both out of mercy and a desire for correct scheduling.

People slowly sat down.  Hats went back on.  In section 110, we mostly laughed.  But not too loudly.  I mean, it wasn’t Tie A Yellow Ribbon.

Joe Panik made a brilliant, beautiful, fielding play.

Then some clowns escaped from the circus.

It’s a shame Joe didn’t commit an act of violence during the play, because everybody would be talking about it.

I’ll cut to the chase. I’m in sunny, happy Arizona.

Yes, it’s glorious.  Yes, I feel guilty.  Yes, the guilt passes quickly.

We arrived our sacred destination about 12:30- just in time for the ceremonial circumnavigation of Scottsdale Stadium, weaving in and out of 12,000 sun deprived baseball obsessives- their faces showing slight hints of future sunburns and even a trace or two of anticipatory drool.

We spotted my favorite pitcher in baseball. He’s 23 feet tall in person. Excitedly, we rushed over to watch Sir Madbum warm up. Twas for naught, as they have now covered up the bullpen so rude rookie Instagram photographers can no longer lean over for the quick out of focus art shots.

After that failure, I showed the missus where the team has warmups in an adjacent mini-field when one Hunter Pence suddenly appeared toting a bag, his bat, and a supply of intensity.

A fellow fan spotted him as well and yelled out from above: HEY PENCEY, MY MAN!

Pence continued to look straight ahead and and replied with kindness and clarity: Hey guys, enjoy the game…., I am getting focused.

While saying that, he gave the DEVIL ROCK SALUTE, never once looking up.

This is why I love Pence.  This is why everybody loves Pence. He’s keeping it real without the rude. He’s holding the fire without sacrificing the fun. And he’s focusing, like really hard, for us.

When he stepped up to the plate for his first at bat, he knocked the crap out of the ball and we all got the first taste of 2017 Penceian magic.

And with that lovely crack of a  bat, all the happy people became just that much happier.

And more focused, I must add.

A reverse top 10 list. It was a great season. Proof offered below.

10. When I came out of the bathroom at the Diamondbacks stadium and realized there was sky everywhere.  When I went into the bathroom there was no sky anywhere.

9. Getting an unexpected bobblehead at the Diamondback game. Which I gave to someone who PROMISED to give it a child.

8. Watching Reds/Giants game in Great American Ballpark next to Strawberry Plains native who was at her first MLB game.  Her awesome parents also joined her.

7. Not getting sick from eating food-like substance at Wrigley.  Being surprised at how good the food was at the White Sox park. (Soon to be called: Competitive Rates Field. GAG.)

6. Getting laugh-inducing texts from Giants fans all throughout the year.

5. Taking the Megabus with Charlie Thomas to see the Braves.  We loaded up at 6 AM and were back home by 9PM. Buster Posey being brought in during the 9th was added thrill.

4. Even though UT Baseball wasn’t so hot this year, it’s still a treat to take advantage of those free games for staff members. Great seats, friendly fans, and only a slight shortage of beer. But I’ll take that as a fair trade for the lack of between innings sausage races.

3. Watching Hunter Pence returning to baseball during spring training after finally recovering from injury.  He homered at his second at bat.  Bonus: Watching Cueto’s debut as a Giant in spring training.

2. The thrill of the Wild Card game between Giants and Mets.  I wasn’t in NY, but I was at home with my favorite human and favorite dog. All I wanted, I told myself, was just at least one post season game.  Until I got it.  Then I wanted more. And I got it.  For a while.

And numero uno- drum roll please:

First game at Wrigley. See previous entry.

And Bonus Round:

A few beautiful autumns ago, I drove Daugus the dog down the long, worrisome road for her final visit to the vet. It was already past time to do it. She was on serious pain meds, yowling such at night that you rarely had a dream that wasn’t soaked in guilt or regret.

Once we got to the vet, she somehow rebounded to her old self for a few moments- tail wagging, a small smile that we thought was long gone found it’s way to her grey, scarred face. She looked up at me as if to say:

Really? This is what you are going to do to me? My oldest friend?

But the die was already cast at that point. All the for/against cases had been made.

We called in the closer.

I felt like you are supposed to feel for the next several days, which is to say lousy. Not only sad, but lousy. Like a 162 pound cloud with a very short rope had been tied to my shoulder.

And so it is with the end of baseball season.  And no, nobody’s heart will stop beating- though it can get pretty close to a crawl in the bottom of the ninth.

Yeah, my team lost. Blew a comfortable, clean lead with only three outs to get. They were home free. And they had earned it, playing brilliant, beautiful, smart, gritty, tough baseball for the last two weeks, calling up everything they had. And then Moore.

Alas, though, it was like the end of The Dirty Dozen when the guy stands up in the jeep and yells ‘we made it’ and then gets shot in the back.

That movie also left me feeling some deep ennui and lousy-ness for days because of that scene and also the one where Jim Brown gets it. I still hope it will turn out differently when I watch it again. It doesn’t.

Yeah, the Giants season is over. Is that cause enough for mild to moderate melancholy? Sure.  But the lousy-ness, that’s from something else.

We all lose. Anybody that plays loses. I’m starting to see that the way in which the loss comes matters more than the loss itself. Having the rug yanked out from under you by your own doing or by those you count on, for example, can carry that deep, painful sting we spend entire lives avoiding.

Unlike Daugus, though, baseball will rise again. And again. And again. And I’ll be ready at some point. Just not today.

I guess this blog post would get a lot more clicks and have a higher appeal to teenagers if I trashed Harper and ridiculed any pundits that agree with him.

But I understand.  I wake up every single morning and thank the Gods of Shame that Youtube didn’t exist when I was 24. It would have captured a man on stage who had no filter. Sometimes this could be entertaining, I reckon.  But I wouldn’t want a permanent record of the times it wasn’t.  It’s part of being 24.  Or 29.  Or however old Goose Gossage is. Maybe Bryce will look back down the road with similar eyes.

But here is where I think Harper is totally wrong.  His supposes that if you belittle (as opposed to respect, a term often used in baseball when money is being negotiated) your opponent this will make more young people interested in baseball.

Wrong. It will make more young people interested in going to Youtube clips of players taunting each other.  It won’t make them buy a glove.  It won’t make them join a team. It won’t make them ask dad for a few more pitches in the back yard.  It will make them more skilled at being sarcastic. Look, I have a lot of respect for sarcasm- but it’s not a great tool for inspiring people to scoop up a grounder and throw a guy/gal out at first.

And who says players don’t show emotion? Ever seen how quick an entire team of grown men will clear the dugout to celebrate a walk-off homer or join a fight?

Another point: Baseball isn’t tired to a lot of people out there. I have been in Scottsdale for the last week attending sold out games and packed stadiums with people of all ages and races in attendance. It’s some of the most fun I’ve had.  How else could I not gripe when buying a five dollar bottled water?

Every morning I eat breakfast at U.S. Egg (get the hash browns, seriously) which is packed with people, wearing jerseys from teams from all over the country, excited beyond belief to be here watching baseball every single day. Some have traveled a long way at some expense to see these games. None of them look tired. One young server also worked at the Rockies stadium in PR.  She didn’t look tired despite holding down two jobs. Hunter Pence didn’t look tired coming back to his first game after months of injury sadness.

Look, I’m sure Bryce wants a more exciting game.  We all do.  But belittling players who have dedicated their lives to entertaining and inspiring us might not be the trick he’s looking for.

Lower the mound, maybe?