Monthly Archives: March 2014

God Bless America, back to the bench? (The Pretzel Conspiracy)

24 Monday Mar 2014

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The New York Yankees can and should keep God Bless America in their rotation.  There is a history there, a profound one at that. That’s plenty of of chances to catch a plethora of performances of said song for one year.  Agree? Kate Smith, we love ya, but the saturation point has arrived. About six years ago.

I don’t know how to start a movement on this topic without being accused of being an un-patriotic heathen. But it’s not about that- it’s just not that good of a song. Not one I want to hear EVERY SINGLE GAME.  Plus, there is already a perfect song for the 7th inning stretch. More worrisome,  I got a cold glare at Jet Blue for not taking my hat off for that particular number.  Dear Lee Greenwood fan:  according to my records, this is a (historical/tired) pop song and not an anthem. If we start this kind of trend, where will it end? With everyone removing their sandals for Sweet Caroline?

I’ve noticed a lot of parks are quietly dropping this gem from the lineup.  I submit to you that this is clear, cultural progress. And, if they don’t drop it, fine.  That’s just one more Bavarian pretzel opportunity for me.

Hmmm….maybe that’s why they play it in first place.  Anyone got a copy of the the 2014 Pretzel Sales Prospectus? I got theory going on, here.

 

 

The Twins win it all!

24 Monday Mar 2014

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The Minnesota Twins may not win the most ball games in the Grapefruit league this year.  And, if you take a quick and painful look at the stats you will see they do not indicate an outstanding upcoming season.  But, my friends, I’ll tell you where they leave every other team in the dirt: The pre-game music at Hammond Stadium is unparralled.

I’ve been to most of the Grapefruit stadiums.  The proud Boston Red Sox offer nauseating doses of  ‘new country’ hits that will be forgotten by the 8th inning of tonight’s game.  They also have a live band playing the HITS, which constantly blend in a uniquely unappealing way with the house music. The Astros have some decent rap going on.  The Yankees offer their charming but possibly dentist-visit-anxiety-level-inducing traveling piano music, Musicale Mark- who obviously listens to Monk, so points there.

But the Twins are spot on. I suspect one person, a person they should never fire or let retire, chooses it all.  And this DJ was wise to choose one long era of music, 1962-1978- which, to be honest, was a tad bit new for many of the folks sitting in my row.

The on-base percentage of the selections was around 98%.   Booker T and the Mg’s, Stax hits, Muscle Shoals marvels, that Steve Miller song you had forgotten, Eddie Money,  the better disco songs, CCR, Louis Armstrong and beyond.  And what they LEAVE OUT is even more impressive:  Brown Eyed Girl, No Woman/No Cry, American Pie, New Country, Sweet Home Alabama, Midnight Hour and the rest of the overplayed chestnuts most of us have long since pushed the I-can’t-handle-it button on.

I do suspect this DJ went to my high school and spent most of his time out in the parking lot listening to this stuff on 8-track and possibly smoking things that would become legal in their lifetime, about 25 years after they quit smoking them.

It was the perfect soundtrack for a great, beautiful night of baseball.  So, DJ whom I will never know, thank you- and please offer your services as quickly as possible to your Beantown neighbors.

Brian McCann in pinstripes

17 Monday Mar 2014

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This time… it’s personal.

McCann was my dad’s favorite player.  When we used to watch the Braves in his later years, he would he sit up a bit more straight, focus in tighter, when McCann was at the plate.  I really wish he would have lived long enough to see McCann take on Carlos Gomez, and win, in the infamous third baseline stare down.  And if I am being greedy, I wish he were here right now to go to breakfast with me and represent the best of humanity at the buffet as I represented the guy sitting next to such a person.

There’s really nothing positive about him being gone, but at least he didn’t have to see McCann in Yankee pinstripe.  He wouldn’t have heckled, he wouldn’t have belittled him, but I know he would have trouble with it.  I have trouble with it. If he had to leave at all I was hoping he would go the American League, but not THAT part of the American League.

Yesterday was my first opportunity to see him play, albeit in a spring training game vs. the Braves, his old flame. The first time he came to the plate, I just stared with no single emotion taking over from the countless others.  While I was processing that, a Braves fan yelled “TRAITOR” a particularly quiet moment. A mixture of uneasy laughs and easy laughs followed.

But…he looked…so… earnest.  Like he always has.  It was still the same guy my dad loved watching catch and hit baseballs. More importantly, he seemed pretty friendly with his old teammates, who, unlike the betrayed heckler, seemed pleased to see him, whatever his fashion choices.

The second time at bat, the heckler used the same “TRAITOR” joke- this time with less appreciation from the Braves fans. It’s like when the nerd gets teased in junior high- you go along with it by laughter, just to avoid getting the same abuse yourself.  But after awhile, you take up for the nerd or at least stop piling on.

Not that McCann is nerd.  In fact, he can be a hothead ready to defend the honor for a slighted pitcher. If I can only stick one label on him, it’s not hothead.  It’s ball player. The guy is a great ball player.  And, BAM, there goes a wobbly drive to right field that results in a double.  Not pretty, but it’s true in it’s direction.

When I was leaving the game I walked out the backside of Steinbrenner Field and saw a guy running laps around practice park.  It was McCann.  I stopped, admired, and forgave- and even forgave the folks who let him get away.

On the long, hot walk back to the hotel I also silently forgave one Mark Teixeira, who was my mom’s favorite.  She never saw him switch to the dark side, either. Like dad, she was also painfully absent at breakfast.

Smells Like Spring Training- or, Why Does It Hurt When I Peek?

17 Monday Mar 2014

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As the Subaru pushes across the Florida state line, I immediately turn on the air conditioner to make a point.  I am here.  Baseball is here. You are there. And you are cold.

What could be more American than driving a Japanese car down I-75, Springsteen cranked, cruise control set to an illegal number, Cracker Jacks all over the floorboard- all the while moving closer to the dream/mission/odyssey to be physically present at seven spring training matchups that mean nothing, yet promise everything?

Springsteen encored with Born To Run about the time I slogged into my hotel. I am staying at the stadium-friendly Holiday Inn Express so I can walk to the game.  No parking rip-off buzz-kill, please. Not on the FIRST one.  Let me be ripped off by the five-dollar pretzel, instead.

The breakfast room is packed full of boisterous Yankees fans, of which I am not.  Neither a fan, nor boisterous.  I have been alone for the last 20 hours and the sheer volume of even one Yankee fan is deafening. WHERE ARE THE DAMN SPOONS?  WHO IS IN CHARGE OF SPOONS?

I see a lone Braves fan in the corner just sitting there being polite and nursing a biscuit or three. Well, I think I’ll go right over there and just say hello.  I don’t.

Covered in dangerous layer of chemicals we call sunscreen  (yeah, I get the irony, that’s why I put it in there), I hustle down whatever-the-name-of-this-long-street is towards BASEBALL ITSELF, in this case, in the physical form of George Steinbrenner Field.  The Yankee propaganda is as omnipresent as it is accurate.  I know a lot of folks, many of whom I admire, HATE this team.  Hate A-rod.  Hate the pinstripes.  Hate the payroll numbers. Hate the loud breakfast eaters. Well, I hate the pinstripes- but I can’t hate this team.  I love baseball too much to despise a group of men that sweat it out all year to make it happen for me.

And let’s be honest, Tanaka, who is pitching today, is a joy to watch- the very essence of a master pitcher.  And Jeter, who is still in Panama at the moment, is a basic all-around-hero to anyone who truly loves decent human beings with superhuman skills.  But yeah, OK, I still hope the Braves pound the overpaid Yankees into the dirt in a way that will leave the fans quiet, humble and sad at Holiday Inn Express dinner buffet.

Hate, no. Enjoy watching emotional pain, yes.

I do my traditional pre-game scuttle around the circumference of the park, except you can’t do that here.  So I stop at the last place you can go, the Walgreen’s Deck/Bar (YES, it’s called THAT) and then freeze, stare blankly, and then turn around like Forest Gump when he reaches the California Coast.  This is followed by the secondary traditions: the pretzel, the gift shop visit to scoff at the orange and white NY hat, and the mandatory inspection of what must be the most narrow bathroom stalls in all of stadium-hood.  And taking in the unmistakeable baseball smells, all of ’em. The good, the bat, and the Uggla.  But mostly just the hot dogs. Why do they only smell magical HERE?

Finally, I settle into my seat and size up the folks in my row.  All acceptable- a nice mix of nerds, former jocks who don’t know they are former jocks, chatty commentators with a 2.89 IRA (interesting/realistic average) , passionate fans of both teams, and even the dad who seems to continually belittle his youngest son for being barely interested- and for, well, having the attention span of a six-year-old. Let me know how that works out for you 11 years from now, pops.

The Yankees fans in row C-217 look wealthier and more confident, the Braves fans look more relaxed and gregarious.  So, we could call it a draw except that Braves fans, impossible not to notice in such warm weather, have bigger breasts.  And that’s not just the men, the women, too.

Turning the observations towards the guy sitting my seat,  he seems to know more about the players and their stats than anyone else.  This gives me a sizeable crumb of pride, but mostly just freaks me out.  Just a year or two ago, I was dead last in that category in most rows I sat in. In fact, last spring training I was shamed by a Phillies housewife who had to point out who Evan Gattis was.  She even knew his Spanish name.

Being newly in love with the actual stats, insights and details, I will spare you those now.  A quick summary, though:  The game made us all happy, even the losers. Tanaka was brilliant. There is your take-a-way: Bet your granny’s retirement money on Tanaka.

And the score? The Braves were losing by the 7th inning stretch. But losing doesn’t matter here, right? Then why does it hurt when I peek at the scoreboard?

Several fair-weather, sunburned fans took the stretch opportunity to shyly scoot out to their air-conditioned SUV’s and semi-fancy hotels.  I followed them  to make sure they got out OK.