Baseball '09, Volume I
Baseball. There is something orderly and precise about the game. One pitcher, one batter. Four balls or three strikes. A perfect diamond of bases, trying to move from start to finish, closing the circuit for as many base runners as you can. Three outs in a half inning, nine innings in a game. Success measured in mathematical statistics. 162 games in a year, broken into home stands and road trips, series of games against individual teams. If you lose today, you can win tomorrow, sets of two, three, or four games to be fought for.
A new season coincides with the arrival of spring, so it co-opts the sense of renewal and rebirth, options for new legends and new myths to be made, as well as tons of money in Vegas, if you're so inclined.
There is the prospect this spring of Oakland having a new offensive je ne sais quoi; having spent years building a reputation for cultivating talent and then selling it off at the trade deadline, they suddenly shocked us all by bringing in some big name bats: Orlando Cabrera, ex-Red Sox star Nomar Garciaparra, prodigal son Jason Giambi (prodigal as much for going to the Yankees as for steroid use), and most of all, Matt Holliday, formerly of the Colorado Rockies, and quite possibly slated to be formerly of Oakland too after the trade deadline, depending on how things go. So I want to see Oakland early and often while I could see them with an offense.
April 14th, I got a free ticket through work, proving that having a job is good for something, even in this economy. I checked the papers, and found that Daisuke Matsuzaka, the highly successful Japanese import from last year, was pitching for Boston against Dana Eveland, one of a group of young Oakland pitchers who are highly regarded. It seemed like a pitcher's duel was on the cards, and I was looking forward to a warm East Bay evening, decor of the ballpark notwithstanding.
The Coliseum in Oakland is not what I would call a pretty ball park, nowhere near the caliber of the Giants' waterfront stadium. It has a somewhat industrial feel to it, all concrete, and the upper deck is almost completely tarped off. It always feels like I have to walk forever to find the right gate for my ticket.
But still, you have the green grass of the field in that distinctive cross-hatched mowing pattern, the white of the foul lines, the dirt of the infield and the warning track, and there was the best seat I've ever had, right along the first base foul line, halfway to the corner. It's like the players were the size of real-life people, right there in front of me. Jason Varitek was warming up Matsuzaka right there in front of me; I'd read all about Varitek in Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan's book Faithful, chronicling the Red Sox' championship season in 2004.
Objectively speaking, hero worship or athletic fanaticism is a pretty weird thing. Subjectively speaking, it is just darned cool. Seeing the players up close and in person, somehow reading the lettering of their names on the back of their uniforms, makes them seem more real.
I bought a $4 pretzel and an $8 cup of beer. Gotta love the economics of concession stands. They ought to charge on a sliding scale based on the number of drinks you've had; the more you drink, the more willing you'll be to pay extra. But the pretzel was really good.
I was happy, though there was a chill in the air.
Then the game began, and the Red Sox drove in three runs in the top half of the first inning, and I felt the cold onset of here-we-go-again. Eveland could not get anyone out, and I had flashbacks of Greg Smith's debacle against the Twins last year.
It turned out, though, that the cold I felt was simply the wind sneaking up to prove that actually the East Bay can be damned cold in the evening. It was 50 degrees and would only get colder.
But then the bottom of the first inning showed up, and Daisuke Matsuzaka did not, or at least his skill did not. Oakland drove in five runs, highlighted by a two run double by Holliday, long and far, that banged against the padded center-field wall above the outstretched glove. Matsuzaka would not be back for the second inning.
Eveland, however, settled down, and the Boston reliever, Justin Masterson, proved to be much more in command. A long and closely fought game was fought in the deepening cold. Holliday made a great tumbling catch followed by an accurate throw to put out Kevin Youkilis at first base for a double play. Dustin Pedroia of the Red Sox made one of the best diving catches in mid-air that I have seen.
Late in the game, the Red Sox scored twice more to tie the game, and we went to extra innings, as the night grew later, the cold grew sharper, and the last BART train of the night loomed closer. Still, I stayed, because, well, it was a free ticket, and leaving before the end? That seemed unthinkable, almost unpatriotic.
At the end of the 10th inning, it was 11 p.m. and I had to go. There was a steady string of other people also trudging to the BART station, and at any moment I expected to hear a roar from the stadium indicating a result for better or worse that I had missed due to a weakness of character, i.e., wanting to go home and get some sleep before work, not wanting to be stuck in Oakland with no way over the Bridge, etc.
I checked my text alerts as I took a mostly full train back to San Francisco, and by the time I was ascending the escalator at Powell Street, I found out that Oakland won in the bottom of the 12th.
All in all, a good game. As I was heading for the bus, a homeless guy named Nathaniel told me he was a gift from god and asked if it would really kill me to have a cup of coffee with him, etc., but this is not his story. This is about baseball, a bit of order to contrast with the decay and sadness and mess of the Tenderloin approaching midnight. So I don't want to write about the sad people I saw slumped on the bus, or panhandling in confused, grim-faced chaos, or the gold-clothed black man who lurched onto the bus, saying, "Whoa, I almost spilled my beer. Slow down, driver. Slow down, baby," as the bus pulled away. People saying 'fuck' loudly at the back of the bus. I got a bit freaked out, and was very glad when the bus got past Cathedral Hill and headed down into the Richmond district.
I don't want to write about that part of the night. Not now.
A new season coincides with the arrival of spring, so it co-opts the sense of renewal and rebirth, options for new legends and new myths to be made, as well as tons of money in Vegas, if you're so inclined.
There is the prospect this spring of Oakland having a new offensive je ne sais quoi; having spent years building a reputation for cultivating talent and then selling it off at the trade deadline, they suddenly shocked us all by bringing in some big name bats: Orlando Cabrera, ex-Red Sox star Nomar Garciaparra, prodigal son Jason Giambi (prodigal as much for going to the Yankees as for steroid use), and most of all, Matt Holliday, formerly of the Colorado Rockies, and quite possibly slated to be formerly of Oakland too after the trade deadline, depending on how things go. So I want to see Oakland early and often while I could see them with an offense.
April 14th, I got a free ticket through work, proving that having a job is good for something, even in this economy. I checked the papers, and found that Daisuke Matsuzaka, the highly successful Japanese import from last year, was pitching for Boston against Dana Eveland, one of a group of young Oakland pitchers who are highly regarded. It seemed like a pitcher's duel was on the cards, and I was looking forward to a warm East Bay evening, decor of the ballpark notwithstanding.
The Coliseum in Oakland is not what I would call a pretty ball park, nowhere near the caliber of the Giants' waterfront stadium. It has a somewhat industrial feel to it, all concrete, and the upper deck is almost completely tarped off. It always feels like I have to walk forever to find the right gate for my ticket.
But still, you have the green grass of the field in that distinctive cross-hatched mowing pattern, the white of the foul lines, the dirt of the infield and the warning track, and there was the best seat I've ever had, right along the first base foul line, halfway to the corner. It's like the players were the size of real-life people, right there in front of me. Jason Varitek was warming up Matsuzaka right there in front of me; I'd read all about Varitek in Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan's book Faithful, chronicling the Red Sox' championship season in 2004.
Objectively speaking, hero worship or athletic fanaticism is a pretty weird thing. Subjectively speaking, it is just darned cool. Seeing the players up close and in person, somehow reading the lettering of their names on the back of their uniforms, makes them seem more real.
I bought a $4 pretzel and an $8 cup of beer. Gotta love the economics of concession stands. They ought to charge on a sliding scale based on the number of drinks you've had; the more you drink, the more willing you'll be to pay extra. But the pretzel was really good.
I was happy, though there was a chill in the air.
Then the game began, and the Red Sox drove in three runs in the top half of the first inning, and I felt the cold onset of here-we-go-again. Eveland could not get anyone out, and I had flashbacks of Greg Smith's debacle against the Twins last year.
It turned out, though, that the cold I felt was simply the wind sneaking up to prove that actually the East Bay can be damned cold in the evening. It was 50 degrees and would only get colder.
But then the bottom of the first inning showed up, and Daisuke Matsuzaka did not, or at least his skill did not. Oakland drove in five runs, highlighted by a two run double by Holliday, long and far, that banged against the padded center-field wall above the outstretched glove. Matsuzaka would not be back for the second inning.
Eveland, however, settled down, and the Boston reliever, Justin Masterson, proved to be much more in command. A long and closely fought game was fought in the deepening cold. Holliday made a great tumbling catch followed by an accurate throw to put out Kevin Youkilis at first base for a double play. Dustin Pedroia of the Red Sox made one of the best diving catches in mid-air that I have seen.
Late in the game, the Red Sox scored twice more to tie the game, and we went to extra innings, as the night grew later, the cold grew sharper, and the last BART train of the night loomed closer. Still, I stayed, because, well, it was a free ticket, and leaving before the end? That seemed unthinkable, almost unpatriotic.
At the end of the 10th inning, it was 11 p.m. and I had to go. There was a steady string of other people also trudging to the BART station, and at any moment I expected to hear a roar from the stadium indicating a result for better or worse that I had missed due to a weakness of character, i.e., wanting to go home and get some sleep before work, not wanting to be stuck in Oakland with no way over the Bridge, etc.
I checked my text alerts as I took a mostly full train back to San Francisco, and by the time I was ascending the escalator at Powell Street, I found out that Oakland won in the bottom of the 12th.
All in all, a good game. As I was heading for the bus, a homeless guy named Nathaniel told me he was a gift from god and asked if it would really kill me to have a cup of coffee with him, etc., but this is not his story. This is about baseball, a bit of order to contrast with the decay and sadness and mess of the Tenderloin approaching midnight. So I don't want to write about the sad people I saw slumped on the bus, or panhandling in confused, grim-faced chaos, or the gold-clothed black man who lurched onto the bus, saying, "Whoa, I almost spilled my beer. Slow down, driver. Slow down, baby," as the bus pulled away. People saying 'fuck' loudly at the back of the bus. I got a bit freaked out, and was very glad when the bus got past Cathedral Hill and headed down into the Richmond district.
I don't want to write about that part of the night. Not now.
Labels: baseball
posted by Devin at 10:58 PM
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