Ti-GRRRS!

In memoriam: Louis the Cat

I often go through withdrawal in early-November, missing the baseball that has been a part of my life for the previous six months.  Not this year, however, I think for two reasons.
First, I saw a lot of ball, 29 games, and they were nicely spread out over the course of the season.  Secondly, I saw four play-off games in person, which seemed after the fact to provide a sense of closure.  Those games also made me a Tigers fan, at least for the month of October.

In the span of nine days I saw a pair of games at Comerica Park (above) and a couple more at Yankee Stadium.  I didn't really know what I was doing.  I just bought tickets because I could and it all (for the most part) worked out.  It almost felt like circumstances were being guided by an outside force, but that doesn't happen, does it?

We Saw What We Came to See

My old—as in long-time, although we did discuss being middle-aged—college buddy Lee and I went out to Citi Field with hopes of seeing R.A. Dickey win his 20th game for the New York Mets.  The knuckleballer succeeded in his attempt, despite Jon Rauch giving up a ninth inning, two-run homer that cut the lead to a single run.
Box Score

Thursday's game was the first that Lee had seen at Citi Field, although he once worked on a Dunkin' Donuts television spot there, even getting the opportunity to shag flies in the outfield.  Mets manager Terry Collins says the 15-second commercial took five hours to shoot, according to the Wall Street Journal.

Romney Trails President in Swing States

Still Ahead of Baseball in Local Poll

I stopped by a bar in my neighborhood this evening, looking for supper and ESPN's Sunday night game, the Los Angeles Dodgers at the Cincinnati Reds.  Football was on the television at the far end and on the screen above the door was ... Mitt Romney?  Really?

I have resigned myself to the fact that baseball gets bumped off barroom walls in May and June, second and even third in popularity to the NHL and NBA playoffs.  But I could not get my head wrapped around the idea that my neighbors preferred to watch Romney with the sound off, instead of the not-quite-out-of-wild-card-contention Dodgers, up against the Reds, division champions in the National League Central.

Shame, Shame, Shame

So when Rob and I go to games, we make a point to never leave before the end of the game, no matter what. See, for example, the sad but gripping tale of our epic evening with the Indians. Hell, there was one game where we basically weren't speaking to each other, but we lasted through all of that one, too.

Yet today, because I was feeling a little under the weather and was a bit preoccupied with work, Watson and I left Wrigley in the top of the sixth, with the Cubs down 9–5. That turned out well:

Our streak of not seeing the Cubs win at Wrigley remains unbroken, through no fault of the team. Lesson learned.

Burnt

My buddy Kevin and I saw the Mets on Tuesday, the first trip to Citi Field this season for either of us.  Prior to the game, we had supper at Donovan's Pub, a Woodside, Queens landmark for 45 years that is on the real estate market.  (Photo by wallyg used through Creative Commons license.)

Donovan's is often touted—Time Out in 2004, nymag, chowhound—as serving the best burger in New York City.  Many a Mets fan has stopped by the pub on the way to or from a game but not Kevin or me.  We decided it might be now or never.

Yakety Yak

(Won't Be Back)

With apologies to The Coasters, performers of the 1958 #1 hit, I am referring here to the Yakima Bears, who played their last ever home game last night.  Starting next June, the Northwest League franchise will play in Hillsboro, a suburb of Portland, Oregon.  The team will remain a Diamondbacks' affiliate.

Although the league approached Hillsboro in September 2011, just one year after the Portland Beavers relocated to Tucson, Arizona, I was late to the realization that this would be the Bears last season in Yakima.  I would have liked to have seen the team before they left, like last year's trip to see the Kinston Indians.  I have to start reading Ballpark Digest more regularly.

Home Away from Home

Although there was a scheduled autograph session after the
game, Spinners second baseman Mookie Betts signed everything
put in front of him before heading to the showers.  A classy kid.

The central feature of my August trip was home teams playing somewhere other than their home field.  On August 16 I watched the Scranton-Wilkes Barre Yankees play at McCoy Stadium, their sixth "home" field of a season played entirely on the road while PNC Field is reconstructed.

Two days later I attended the seventh annual "Futures at Fenway," a double-header of Red Sox affiliates.  This year the Lowell Spinners and the Pawtucket Red Sox took the stage at the parent club's historic stadium.  By the fourth day of the road trip, I realized I was more at home away from home.

An Even Less Ambitious Day

(unless you are Lynn and Dave)

 

It's about as far from Pawtucket to Lowell as it was from New London to Pawtucket, but I planned (and accomplished!) even less.  Detouring from I-95 to Brookline, I took short tours of the Museum of Bad Art and the Frederick Law Olmsted National Historic Site.

Later I caught a delightful nap and a game between the Lowell Spinners and the Aberdeen Ironbirds, where an on-field wedding was the most memorable part of the evening.

Rhode Trip

On Thursday morning, I put my mother on the train in New London and headed to Rhode Island.  I had planned a more leisurely day than Melvin and I typically do; the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) Museum of Art—above, Gilded Frost and Jet Chandelier, 2008 by Dale Chihuly (pdf)—and a game between the Pawtucket Red Sox and the Scranton-Wilkes Barre Yankees, the Triple-A affiliates of the American League East rivals.

Cousins

Updated: August 25, 2012

Most simply, cousins are people who share an ancestor.  The word "cousins" generally refers to first cousins, the children of your parents siblings.  However, the relationship can get considerably more complicated than that.

My mother had two cousins who were related to each other only by marriage.  When I asked her how she was related to Dolores ("Val") Seitz née Storck, she just sighed in resignation.  However, Charles J. Seitz is mom's first cousin, the only son of her Uncle Midge and Aunt Lizzie.  That is the four of them in the picture above.

When we were all younger, my family often celebrated holidays and other events with Charles and Val and their kids.  Then we all left for college, moved around the country and the world ... you know how it goes.  We saw each other when "C.J." died but lacking another foreseeable opportunity to get together, I invited two of my cousins and their families to see Wednesday's Connecticut Tigers game with my mother and me.

How Low Can You Go?

Varying degrees of effort in the Frontier League

We've often tried to make it plain that as far as our neverending quest goes, there are baseball teams and then there are baseball teams. The latter are those that are affiliated with MLB teams, from the short-season single-A Casper Ghosts (RIP) up to the Triple-A Toledo Mudhens. The former are everyone else, from your local high school team on up to and including the teams in Japan and Korea and throughout Latin America. We just have to draw the line somewhere.

Really the only confusion comes up with nearly professional leagues like the North American League and the Frontier League. These are teams that occasionally feature once and future major leaguers, but the odds are deeply, deeply against these players, some of whom are already washouts from affiliated minor leagues. The Frontier League keeps a list of "alumni" who have made it to the majors. In had taken 18 years for the list to become 23 guys long, and the most well known of the bunch is, um, Brendan Donnelly maybe? Jason Simontacchi? Dylan Axelrod? You see the problem.

Hänsel und Vanderheiden

Cyclones starter Hansel Robles, caged in the garden (the dugout),
watches reliever Tyler Vanderheiden (in the guise of Gretel) shove
the wicked witch (aka the Vermont Lake Monsters) into the oven.
Folklore is all about archetypes.

My short trip to Connecticut and Massachusetts next week starts with a game I will see with my mother, two of her cousins (once removed) and their spouses.  As a sort of a dress rehearsal, I took mom to last night's Brooklyn Cyclones game, her first.  It was a classic visit to MCU Park.

Migrating North with the Cardinals

The last two days of the July trip were high mileage, driving first from Fayetteville, Arkansas, to Memphis, and then on to St. Louis and Chicago—a third or more of the total distance traveled.  Melvin and I saw in their native habitats the Memphis Redbirds, the Triple-A affiliate of the St. Louis Cardinals, as well as the parent club.

We also squeezed in a tour of the National Civil Rights Museum and a couple stops at neighborhoods that have disappeared; a subdivision known as Carrollton, in Bridgeton, Missouri, and the site of the former Pruitt-Igoe public housing development in St. Louis.

We returned to the Cotham's Mercantile, which was closed on the drive west, had a lackluster supper at Neely's Bar-B-Que and were flummoxed again by the menu at Culver's, the Midwest burger and custard chain.

But that was all five weeks ago; I don't know that I have anything to say any more.

A Short Tour of Arkahoma Architecture

Our old friend the Catoosa Whale, perhaps the mascot of all American roadside "ducks"

There's more to Tulsa than a shameful desire to eradicate the past, including, somewhat to our surprise, a lot that is of architectural interest. We knew that Tulsa has a surprisingly large assortment of Art Deco buildings, and on our last trip there we'd already seen the distant cousin of the World Trade Center that dominates the north end of downtown. This time, though, we got a better sense of the city's overall architectural heritage.

Mission Accomplished

The itinerary of this trip was constructed around seeing the Arkansas Travelers, Northwest Arkansas Naturals and Springfield Cardinals.  Simple enough in concept, the small size of the eight-team Texas League, the close proximity of the three teams and the absence of nearby teams in other leagues make it difficult to get the schedules to align.

Starting our planning before the league schedule was announced, we were able to find a window of opportunity—Tuesday-Friday, July 3-6—that included the Tulsa Drillers, the fourth team in the North Division.  We saw the entire South Division on our 2008 Texas trip and they were the visiting clubs two weeks ago.

Who's on Third?

Steve Clevenger was so uncomfortable at third base that he hid behind this pole. (Starlin Castro, at right, is trying to help him chill out by ignoring both him and the pole.)

Catcher Steve Clevenger, that's who!

Some pinch-hitting shenanigans by Cubs manager Dale Sveum in this evening's Marlins bloodbath led to the not too common spectacle of two catchers playing the field at the same time. Clevenger had pinch-hit for Jairo Asencio in the bottom of the eighth and apparently, rather than risk the chance of having no backup for Soto available, Sveum decided to find a place for him in the field—sort of a variant on the old pitcher-in-the-outfield ploy. Hence, Clevenger's debut at third. Luckily, no balls were hit or thrown his way, and no one got hurt—which is about the most that can be said about what the Cubs accomplished tonight.

There Used to Be a Crime Against Humanity, Right Here

Archer St., looking west, 2004

The Greenwood neighborhood of Tulsa has changed a great deal since we last visited it.

Holy Rolling Along

Melvin and I select our destinations according to our interests, so it is not surprising that correlations occur.  Neither of us is religious, so the numerous churchly stops during the first half of this trip kind of snuck up on us.

We visited a grotto on the first day of the current trip, saw several churches on the Day Two tour of Columbus, and attended Hershel Greer Stadium on Faith Night, Sunday.

In the next four days—Monday-Thursday, July 2-5—we saw a baseball game nightly and made numerous other stops during the day, many for barbecue.  As we have done so, however, we continued to encounter the ecclesiastic and the spiritual.

Pork, Pork... Pork?

Tuesday was all about pork. And art (which Rob will discuss). And music. And oh yeah baseball. But first the pork, which helped propel us from Jackson, Tennessee, to Little Rock, Arkansas.

Having trouble seeing much in that photo? Well, that's Payne's BBQ, on the south side of Memphis, perhaps the most amenity-free restaurant I have ever been to (yes, including your average Kansas Fried Chicken). The place is a barely converted service station that's been barred up and encased in concrete grillwork on the outside, and the inside is hot, dark, and barely outfitted. The menu board sit on the floor in the corner. The tables were last wiped down in 1973 or so. The bathroom is the sort of place you expect to find a mutilated body. But holy god is the food good.

Here Comes Nobody

On Monday, Rob and I bid a sad farewell to Watson at the Nashville airport and lit out for some deep country barbecue. Sadly, the object of our intentions, Ricky's Scott's Barbecue (no relation, I think, to Ruth's Chris) is closed on Mondays. A big wood fire was raging in the back though, and a deaf-mute there directed me inside to chat with a gentleman of the establishment (quite possible Ricky), who confirmed that, indeed, there was no barbecue to be had at Ricky's Scott's, nor in the entire town, nor for miles around. So we left.

Monday = Closed, dummies

Too Hot for Anything

By the third day of the trip, the third day of temperatures in excess of 100°, we had grown tired of fighting it.  We stayed in our air-conditioned motel in Bowling Green until check-out time, then drove to The Loveless Café, about 15 miles southwest of downtown Nashville.

After lunch, we again hid-out in our air-conditioned hotel, coming out only for a game between the Iowa Cubs and the Nashville Sounds.

Miller Time

Saturday's itinerary began with a destination I have long wanted to visit: Columbus, Indiana, renown for its extensive collection of modern architecture.  Melvin has toured Columbus before.  Watson had not, and none of us had ever eaten at the Moonlite Bar-B-Q in Owensboro, Kentucky, or seen the Bowling Green Hot Rods minor league baseball team.  That was the rest of the day, or the parts not spent driving.

Body and Soul

Melvin, Watson and I ended our Friday at Victory Field, home of the Indianapolis Indians.  The division leaders won the game, their 50th win of the season and 30th at home, extending their lead over the third place Mud Hens to 18.5 games.

Two errors let the home team score three unearned runs in the (very) first inning.  The Indians added a run in the fifth.  Two Toledo triples in the eighth kept the visitors from being shut out.
Box Score

Before the game we took care of body and soul.

Personal Attention

It is true.  We have only eight followers and most of them are people Melvin and I know personally.  Nevertheless, attending a game yesterday with Lea means I have gone to the ballpark with roughly two-thirds of our beloved followers.  How many blogs can claim that level of personal attention?

Well Read Fans

I like baseball and I like to read, so I was happy to tag along last Wednesday with a group of students who were rewarded with baseball tickets, lunch and green t-shirts for reading, on average, a book a month during the school year.  The young people, from
P.S. 307 in Vinegar Hill, saw the Braves beat the Yankees in a game that featured the long ball.

It's a great story—the kids, not the baseball game—and I wish I had the time to write it; it would practically write itself.  I pitched the story to the publisher of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, but nothing yet has come of that.

Acquitted

No, this post doesn't have an image.
Roger Clemens doesn't deserve one.

The New York Times headline says it all, simply, concisely; "Clemens Is Found Not Guilty in Perjury Trial."  How do you explain it?  "It's fucking bullshit," wrote Red in an exchange of text messages after the verdict was announced in the press.

Bob Brenly, Grammarian

 

All Starlin Castro needed Sunday night for the cycle was a home run. As you can probably intuit from the fact that you didn't hear about it, he didn't get it. He did sock one tonight off Zach Stewart, though, and in describing it WGN broadcaster Bob Brenly endeared himself to copy editors everywhere, as he said, "That ball just kept going further and further—I mean, farther and farther!"

As grammar nerds nationwide know, "further" is used in the sense of "something additional," while "farther" should be used whenever there is any connotation of distance. I have nothing further to add, except that I never really realized how much Brenly looks like a middle-school vice principal.

Enemy Territory

"It's just like Fenway, honey, except no Monstah!"

As a Red Sox fan in my youth, I know that as a tribe they are known for their rabidity and for their willingness to travel, but it was nonetheless disconcerting to sit at Wrigley on Saturday night surrounded by people cheering for the "Sawx." I'm guessing about a third of the crowd was anti-Cubs—not counting those locals who are merely disgusted by the subterranean level of play this year. This was especially evident during the seventh-inning stretch, where the traditional "Root, root, root for the CUBBIES" came out more like "Root, root, root, for the CRUEBDBSIOEXS!" Then again, who wouldn't prefer to cheer for Big Papi instead of Big Lazy?*

*Many people apparently think it is unfair to criticize Soriano for not running to first after he hit that liner. Why this is I can't say. The whole point of baseball is that you never know what's going to happen.

Twenty-Twelve, v.2

When Melvin and I began to flesh out our second trip of the year, beginning later this month, we found a scheduling error.  Melvin juggled the dates around and with a little effort got the teams' schedules to re-align.  I have added a mid-August trip to my plans and continue to look for a traveling companion to the inaugural season of Marlins Park.

Bullpenalized

I didn't take any pictures at the game,
so here is a photograph from my walk to work, earlier in the day.

A young guy sitting in front of Doug and me at last night's game between the Phillies and the Mets made several comments that were quote-worthy for their prescience.

Early in the game he exclaimed, "This is why I don't come see the Mets play. When I do, they lose." In actuality, the second inning home run by former Mets third baseman Ty Wigginton only tied the game, 1-1.

Nonetheless, after 3:13 of baseball on this muggy May evening, the facts were irrefutable: He had attended the game and the Mets had lost.

Rare Films, Rarely Seen

Yogi Berra trading training tips with a feline friend in a commercial
for Puss 'n Boots cat food (available here, starting at 1:05).

Last week I saw "Rare Films from the Baseball Hall of Fame," presented by Dave Filipi, director of film/video at the Wexner Center for the Arts.  This is the ninth year that Filipi has collected video transfers of films from the archives of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, and the second year he has shown them at the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM).

Once in a Blue Luna

José Contreras (who is 40 in Cuban years) brings it for the Phils

Another trip to Wrigley, another excruciating performance by the Cubs bullpen. But I can say that I was there. I was a witness. I saw the unbelievable. Yes, Hector Luna hit a pinch-hit grand slam.

So what, you say, Hector Luna has hit 13 home runs in his nine-year career. So what, you say, that's what pinch hitters are for. So what, you say, the Cubs bullpen is so bad that it's lucky it didn't somehow give up a five-run home run. All true. But watching a futility infielder hit the second pitch he had seen all year—the second pitch he had seen since 2010—over the ivy (giving him as many RBIs with that one swing as he had had in the last four seasons combined), to give the win to the indefatigable middle reliever José Contreras, makes an aging fan believe that anything is possible.

Mr. Mayor and Mr. Met

As a New Yorker, and as a Mets fan, I could not help but smile at this picture, taken at the press announcement that the 2013 all-star game will be held at Citi Field, home of the New York Mets.

Photo Credit: Spencer T Tucker

Cultured Traveler

Julius Shulman photographed Fire Station No. 28,
644 Figueroa Street in downtown Los Angeles,
(which I did not see but drove past heading for the freeway)
for the Historic American Buildings Survey, or HABS.

Back home, I am catching up on some newspapers published while Melvin and I were in Los Angeles.  The "Cultured Traveler" column in the April 22 New York Times was written by Sam Lubell, one of the authors of Julius Shulman Los Angeles: The Birth of a Modern Metropolis, published a year ago.  Several of Shulman's architectural photographs are iconic and he helped popularize mid-century modernism, especially residences in Southern California.

Lubell highlights four L.A. structures Shulman (1910-2009) photographed that contemporary travelers can visit.  I didn't tour the interiors of any of them, but I saw three of the four (more or less), and a good deal more architecture on our recent trip.

3 x 2 = 3

In a strange twist of scheduling, I have seen three MLB games this year (in two stadiums) yet seen only three teams play: the Cubs, the Dodgers, and the Braves.

More on Malls

A view of Riverside, Calif., in 1966 that I found here.

As it says in Ecclesiastes, "Of the making of malls, there is no end." Following on our experience on Fulton Mall in Fresno, we came across three more major pedestrian malls in California, first in Riverside, then in Pasadena, and finally in Santa Monica.

Bracketed by Stupid

Saturday; we're now caught up as far as Saturday, when Melvin and I drove all over the Inland Empire, sightseeing, and ending up at a Rancho Cucamonga Quakes baseball game.

Roger Clemens, Crazy Man

Screen capture from Keith Olbermann's blog post, "Ten Years After,"
in which the sports and political correspondent calls Clemens, "hopped up."

The government's second attempt to try Roger Clemens on charges of perjury, making false statements and obstruction of Congress began a week ago Monday, while Melvin and I were in Los Angeles.

I have waited for this day since last July, when I facetiously accused the prosecutors of intentionally causing a mistrial.  In his opening statement yesterday, Rusty Hardin, Clemen's attorney, stated

"What guy ... would go to Congress and lie under oath, knowing what the consequences would be if he hadn't done it? What man, except a crazy man, does that?"

Exactly.

Castle, Ranch, Temple, Stadium

On Friday, Melvin and I continued south towards Los Angeles but then veered off into the high desert, ending up finally at a High Desert Mavericks baseball game. Before we got to the stadium, we visited a castle, a ranch and a temple.

Streets of Bakersfield

When planning our trips, Melvin and I consult many sources, including real live people we actually know. It turns out we both know folks who had lived in Bakersfield, land of the free and home of the Blaze, the third baseball team we saw on this trip.

Asked what we should see while we were in town, a co-worker of Melvin’s provided the address of where she grew up and suggested we could visit her childhood home. Sarah, the roommate of a bartender I know, told me she moved there for six months to be with a boyfriend. Love conquers all, but not life in Bakersfield.

So my pulse quickened when I came across “Origin of Country,” an article in the March 9, 2012 special travel section of the New York Times.  Sadly, it only mentioned attractions I had already read about.

The Soul of Wit?

En route from Fresno to Bakersfield we made a stop in Visalia. Ordinarily, I'd regale you with tales of our visit to that stadium, but truth be told most of what there is to say has already been covered at Baseball Stadium Reviews, right down to the rudeness of the fans and the coolness of Tipper the Cow. It is worth underlining that this is perhaps the most awkwardly laid-out stadium there is. (See above, which captures only part of it.)

We had front-row seats that were perhaps a little too close to the extensive netting.

Prior to the game we had spectacular salt-and-pepper shrimp at Pho N Seafood. That's about all I can say about Visalia. In truth, my head was still spinning from Fresno.

They Fought the Mall, and the Mall Lost

Hello, PBID Partners of Downtown Fresno. How are you, PBID Partners of Downtown Fresno? I figure you're tech-savvy enough to have a Google alert set up for yourself, PBID Partners of Downtown Fresno, so I'm glad we have this opportunity to talk. (While Rob and I agree on many things on this blog, I'm speaking only for myself here.)

For those readers of this blog unfamiliar with the PBID Partners of Downtown Fresno, let me introduce you. Readers, PBID Partners of Downtown Fresno is a Property-based Business Improvement District and perhaps better known as "Downtown Fresno," though that seems to be a bit of a misnomer. PBID Partners of Downtown Fresno, these are the readers—say hello.

It's All Nancy Pelosi's Fault

...like so much else in this country.

I took Tuesday morning off and Melvin at least didn't have to answer for other people's decisions and mistakes.  We left for Fresno around 2:00, passing in route many signs critical of current water regulations.  It took us four hours to get to the Central Valley city, leaving us just enough time for Laotian food and a baseball game between the Fresno Grizzlies and the Reno Aces.

Three Days in L.A.

Beginning in 2007, Melvin and I have generally included a spring baseball road trip to the south in our schedule. What started as avoiding uncomfortably hot weather took a turn with our April 2010 trip to the Gulf States.  While Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana would unquestionably get quite hot later in the baseball season, we constructed our itinerary around an annual conference being held in New Orleans.

The convention determined our destination again last year, but we ended up some place that is cold in April.  Melvin has worked the industry get-together all three years.  I attended the convention in New Orleans but did not last year, although I stayed in the conference hotel.  This year I came to the host city while the conference was going on but spent the weekend on my own (above).

Reading List

If this was a more traditional blog, Melvin and I would post more often, and that would mean a constant search for new content.  The easiest way to populate a blog with content is to comment on, or maybe just take note of, someone else's content.

There was just such an opportunity yesterday.  "To celebrate the return of baseball," the New York Times asked some of its staff "to recommend their favorite fiction or nonfiction books that revolve around the sport."  The selections appeared on page C4 of the local print edition and since they do not appear to have been published online, perhaps I actually serve a purpose by regurgitating them here.

What's this "we" business, paleface?

—just to jump ahead to the punch-line.

I have been struggling for some time with what I want to say here, how the blog can be satisfying to me. It's something Melvin and I have discussed several times on the phone and by e-mail, as well as at the bleary-eyed Long Island City "staff meeting."  I have started numerous posts that ended up in the metaphorical trash basket.

So, when Melvin writes, "Our plan is to post less often but at greater length and even perhaps with more insight—long-form journalism," he may be right ... or he may just be expressing what he believes to be the solution to my vexation.  I sense there may be posts that are exactly the opposite, a series of photographs with little text, like the conclusion of my (long-form, I admit) post on Lightning Field.

Or maybe I have already left the reservation.  In my line of work—"I'm a tumbler; I'm a government man."—it's inadvisable to let people see indecisiveness, to make public the thought process (unless one is breaking the rule manipulatively).

On the other hand, I am perplexed by blogs that peter out or abruptly end.  What happened after that last post?  Was the author killed in a car crash?  Or did s/he just lose interest, over time or suddenly, without ever writing about it?  Not as esoterically as I might have—those are some of the drafts I deleted—but I've now written about it.