| |
| ||||||
|
small-town baseball One of the most painful things about California, to this utterly un-Californian boy, is California baseball. It’s everywhere, it seems, except for anywhere near here. Morro Bay is smack in the middle of the Central Coast, a good three-hour drive from Los Angeles or Anaheim or San Francisco or Oakland, and quite a bit farther from San Diego. Baseball eludes me even on television; local stations play only hometown games, and even those are never on when you’d think they might be. Complain, that’s what most baseball fans would do (and that’s what I’m doing now). A better baseball fan would persist. Love always finds a way, they say. More appropriate, perhaps, is the recurring opinion that Jeff Goldblum expressed in Jurassic Park: life finds a way. The way, in this case, is small-town baseball. San Luis has a team in a little collegiate league; the San Luis Blues, they’re called, and their team emblem is a serious-looking baseball in shades and a jazzman’s hat. The S in their name is a saxophone. And in right-center, a little too small to loom properly but looming nevertheless just over the Ultrex banner, is a blue bull with eyes that glow red, a nose that spills smoke, and a tail that bobs creepily up and down. Last night F. and I caught a Blues game at Sinsheimer Park. I’d never been; she’d never been. All night I kept having flashbacks to Bull Durham. It was Ladies’ Night, as the announcer announced many, many times in an increasingly slutty growl, so F. got in free and got a small-tree-sized rose to boot. The game was a bust for the hometown boys, who collected four hits to the visiting team’s eleven, and three runs to their six. The starting pitcher was a bust; the late-game closer (pitcher number four in a hopeless battle) was a marvel, striking out the side in one inning, and two more in the final. Guy beside me yells “Why didn’t this guy start?” Baseball’s complex and fascinating, sure, but what you always forget until you’re parked in your seat is just how much of a community experience it is. All around you are passionate people who leap up and scream at something as small as a single, and whose voices swell to a throbbing crescendo on a deep shot to right, and then collapse into a groan when the ball’s caught a few feet short of the wall. And small-town ball has even more personality, with people stretched out behind the bleachers on blankets, and a colorful local announcer desperately trying to raffle off a pair of gold watches that I’m sure the team’s been trying to give away since 1987, and legions of children released onto the field during the stretch to squabble for prizes. We watched a guy with a bucket throwing indistinguishable objects into all fields. As the kids gathered on the third base line, we tried to figure out what they were about to fight for. “Fish,” F. suggested. “Waffles. Bean bags.” The man who sang the national anthem was introduced as “Robert Beerbong”, even though I’m fairly sure his name was Bierbaum. Hell of a way to spend a Friday night. I’m toying with the idea of season tickets, even though the season’s well under way. Somebody’s got to scream like a mofo at those boys, get their confidence rattled enough that they improbably begin to play well. Reverse psychology’s a big thing in baseball. Nobody talks about it, though. Shh.
| | 
 Subscribe to RSS feed My Flickr photostream My Twitter feed  exit musicwaiting, seeingthat faint sensation of losskninjathe boondock skeinshow to be betterthe chime-maker’s nemesissome things change, some don’t, etc.ohh hahh ohh hahhdamn you, mollyView complete archive
  Lust, CautionDouble IndemnityIron ManForgetting Sarah MarshallThere Will Be BloodGone, Baby, GoneLive Free or Die HardThe Indian RunnerThe Iron GiantContactAn Inconvenient TruthX-Men: The Last StandSuperman ReturnsEnigmaNobody's FoolLook, Up in the SkyNumb3rsMission: Impossible IIIHeavenThe AbyssThe Constant GardenerThe Mosquito CoastThe HustlerLimboGrizzly ManThe VerdictSuperman ReturnsElizabethtownBattlestar GalacticaYou Can Count on MeRolling Roadshow 2005The American PresidentMy DVD collection
 01. dreaming of falling02. marvelous descent03. a conversation04. the colors05. huffnagle island06. a hundred million07. sixty-six stories08. anyone earthbound09. a girl named eleanor10. a route obscure and lonely11. a certain stillness12. this is jack13. wide flat lands14. going home15. girl unscrewed16. slow rehabilitation17. twenty-three stories18. a far-off point19. fifteen years quiet20. a one-beer fella21. luminescence22. one-sided conversation23. hearts big and stupid24. nineteen seventy-eight25. first light26. a hundred years27. too long to stop now28. plainswept29. a widower in training30. spies and assets31. thirty years and then some32. leaping over couches33. cricket song34. eleanor's first kiss35. like so much ballast36. too much37. the longest wait38. the second ice storm39. rocket summer40. waiting41. wax wings42. breakup43. tough beans43. the heavy gray sea
| |  welcome to sxswthe last omelettesummer of '69firewalker with melady bewarehow to drink winefish waffle beanbagssmells like granny fannysimple requeststudent of okinawan historyoperation dinner outstraight on til morningbillions and ... eh, whateversighton the subject of overtimepermafrostedthis morning on the waythree days laterrally, monkeygrowing shamessmall moves, captainbored beyond beliefso well, so strong, so slowthat was a good dayamazing storiescracked your codevarieties of experiencehate it when she does thatmost likely to wear tightsshould've been a cowboymean old menand scenetime-traveling head-puncherwhat're the odds?big k daysthis base will explodno place like50/100/buh-byefurther baseball conversationslongest last rites everwatch the skieswho needs sleeprogue agentred shag carpet and iced teafuck you, murphyslow driftpyro, singular possessivedecompositionwide-eyed wonderoctober morningnational pasttimewordplaymovie buff extraordinairean approximate transcripti wonder if neil simon had a catteach my feet to flyunexploredold girlfriend
  AchewoodAlligators in a HelicopterArt of the Title SequenceThe Big PictureA.V. ClubBinary BonsaiBluishorangeBrand NewCollision DetectionConsumeristCynical-C BlogThe Daily FigureFacetiously MeFast CompanyFirelandFool's ParadiseFtrainHacking NetflixIn the Kitchen with KristieIn One Ear...Looks Good Works WellKathleen EdwardsMark SimonsonOblivioOne Good MoveOur Secret HandshakePhotoshop DisastersPhysical InterfacePosterwireRoger Ebert JournalRyan KeberlySarah's SketchesThe Snowsuit EffortThree-Letter Word for ArtTomorrow MuseumTraditionally Modern DesignsUnreasonable FaithWarpspireWired - EpicenterWired - Geekdad The Eleanor SketchesMy FlickrSketch GalleryThe Dialogue ArchivesManualBest Fiction, Vol. 1DS on Archive.orgHosted by Kionic 9rules member | |
| ||||||
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||
July 3rd, 2007 at 11:54 am
They were shoes!
September 22nd, 2009 at 7:35 pm
[…] we wrote back and forth all afternoon. And yes, I asked her out. In an email. We went to dinner and a ballgame the next day, spent twelve hours talking and getting to know each other. I called it a date. She […]