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.