2008 at Great American Ball(p)ark

Sticky sweet melody sings a river's waves
Makes canorous banks of two states,
Her weighted wet air sends baseballs soaring
Riverboats, speed boats, barges, jet skis
Passing the Queen in her summer glory
As fans pass through the pearly red gates

Their red robes worn gaily with wanton innocence
Their mouths wet with prodigal pleasure
Their eyes wooed by magnanimous hues of a game worn by time
Spending their wad in this moment of leisure
Spending it all to the very last dime
Spending it all to the very last cent

Their talismans turned inside out
The weary fans pray and shout and worship in the pews of legends
A choir thirty thousand strong
Sings the hymns of the Machine
Oh how it turned and cranked and burned!
And now?

The stockings they follow, the mighty, the just
Stumble behind the raging Cubs in pinstriped suits and bank accounts
Stumble behind the lager, the birds,
The thieves of the sea who are always the worst
And those who impersonate space safari
They, too, fly higher than our redlegged weary.

Muscles mangled by a mounded marauder
A breaking pitch as black and parlous
As a sea swallowed by eternal night
Another pitch - a swinging strike
Another game has come and gone
Another season lost and done
___

I have a headache

I have a headache
It's the color of blood
A little lighter, a little brighter
Bitter like wormwood
Bitter like bad Coffey
Like the sight of Corey on a lineup card.

I have a heartache
It's bleeding me out
It's leaving me fallow, hollow
Like that Chris Sabo bat
The one with the cork, the cheat!
I've been cheated.

Another loss, another year
Another end before the grasshoppers fly
Get me some aspirin!
Get me some beer!
(Maybe next year I'll have something to cheer.)
___

Jesus is a baseball fan

People often find this site searching for sermons or prayers or something religious and baseball. That, of course, is to be expected. But it is also something to contemplate, especially as I sit outside and some crackhead with a bullhorn is shouting Jesus this and Jesus that and you're all sinners and going to Hell! Yeah, that really makes me want to join your religion.

The web searches say something - whether it is about the nature of baseball or the nature of the American Jesus, I'm not sure. But I do know that baseball is a spiritual game, one that heightens your senses and gives you a dose of the joy of life. Just thinking about how close we're getting to Opening Day gives me a great smile. The guy on the corner is too cracked out on Jesus to understand that joy as he screams about death and Hell and ruins the peace for so many people who just want enjoy their lunch in the sunshine. Maybe he needs some baseball in his life.

I hope there is never a closer whose name is Jesus. I cringe at the thought of the headline "Jesus saves!"

Bar baseball

I love baseball. Duh, right? Well, tonight, I had a reminder of how much the game is ingrained into my sub-conscience while drinking a couple of pints of Guinness at one of the few places in the DC area that actually knows how to pour a pint - Four P's in Fairfax or Falls Church or whatever Virginia suburb it's in.

Sportscenter was hanging over the bar, and a couple of guys were sort of watching it in that way you watch something when you're with someone and you find your eyes automatically moving towards the television regardless of how interesting the conversation you're having. I watched them with interest because I saw how they were both trying NOT to watch, but they couldn't help it. (And really, when there is no game on, why is it necessary to have the television on instead of allowing good conversation?) Then, I heard the word "baseball" and could no longer concentrate on my own conversation.

Sure, my conversation was on the potential for war with Iran and the fact that my god, at least we are talking to them now! Then we switched to the Iraq topic, commenting about how the "surge" was not a surge of new troops but 20,000 poor soldiers who have all been to Iraq once, twice, and even three times. But that word baseball, well, it pulled me away from the harsh realities of living in 21st century America and brought me to a place where I could remember the sweet pleasures that life has to offer.

It's funny how that one word can alter your activities and thoughts and feelings and mood and blood pressure and breathing...

Why do we root, root, root for our particular teams?

I've uprooted myself quite a few times in my brief existence, spending significant time in Europe, California, and now DC. I've wandered the streets of Paris and London, trekked the emerald hills of Ireland, skied the majestic Alps, marveled at the Great Pyramids of Egypt, played a softball tournament in Australia, danced in the clubs of Berlin, breathed the filthy air of Rome, climbed the hills of San Francisco, and reflected spirituality on the banks of the River Jordan, among other amazing adventures. But one thing that has remained constant has been my love for the Cincinnati Reds.

Despite my enthusiasm for the Nationals, they'll never trump my devotion to the team of my childhood (except in the extreme case when they play each other in, say August 2005 and the Reds are way out of it but the Nats are still in it and I have to root for the Nats to take 2 of 3, which they did not and subsequently failed to make the playoffs.) In this day and age of technology and easy travel, maintaining allegiance to your team is simple no matter where you are in the wide, wide world.

Nothing can replace my priceless memories of Riverfront Stadium and the Reds who played there. We'd travel down I-75 from the Dayton area - an eternity for an eight or ten year old kid nearly bursting with anticipation - mesh Reds caps on heads, pointing in excitement every time we'd pass a car full of like-headed people, exclaiming, "They're going to the game, too!" Then, just as the anticipation was about to drive us mad, the car took the final interstate curve, and the Cincinnati skyline and the cathedral-like stadium exploded into view. The whole city seemed to come to life at that instant as the magic of summer and baseball took hold of it.

We usually got off the Freeman Avenue exit and bumped over the old railroad tracks on the way to the outlaying gravel parking lots full of guys selling large inflatable bats and plastic batting helmets and sometimes scorecards or programs. Then we'd get out and walk under the bridge and through the tunnel to the start of the ramps that went up and then turned and went up and then turned again and up and turned forever until we were on the outside concourse and could watch the boats on the river or stare up at the skyscrapers or just enjoy the thousands of Reds-decked fans streaming into the stadium.

I remember wanting to jump through the gates and run to the seats - couldn't wait to get there. (Never ran, though - back then, parents didn't let their children run wild in public places. It's a shame that's changed.) Finally, the green field erupted into our sight, and there were the players - gods in our eyes - warming up for the game. I know I saw Pete Rose play. I wish I remembered it. My memories of individual players really start around the time of Ron Oester, Nick Essasky, Ron Robinson, and Mario Soto, with Pete as manager, just after he stopped playing and right before his downfall. Of course, the vivid memories are of Eric Davis, Chris Sabo, Paul O'Neill, Tom Browning, Jose Rijo, the Nasty Boys, and the 1990 World Series Championship. And then there is my all-time favorite Red - Barry Larkin.

I recount these memories because they are part of what firmly embeds my love for the Reds into my heart, a love that can never be uprooted no matter where I may be in the world. Which brings me to the point of this post. How could someone ever change allegiance to another team, and how do people who did not grow up with baseball become fans of a team?

What prompted these thoughts was the article on Nats bloggers in WaPo last week. I started to wonder how such a devoted following could develop so quickly, especially for a team who had been the bastard child of baseball for so many years. I wondered how many new Nats fans had been O's fans before and why or how they had switched. I wondered if some of them had grown up somewhere else and had rooted for other teams as kids. I think it is a fascinating relationship Nats fans have developed with the team.

I love the Nationals. I would have loved them if they hadn't had that magical 2005 season. (I mean, I stood in line from 7am until tickets went on sale at noon so I could get Home Opener tix then!) I love the Giants, too, from my time spent in Monterey. I even rooted for the O's during my first two years in DC (though rooting for an AL team was kind of weird for me.) I love baseball, love the magic it brings, love to share enthusiasm and joy with fellow fans, but I could never stop loving the Reds the most.

It's a curious thing, team loyalty, isn't it? I'd appreciate any comments anyone might have about why they love their team and how they developed such affection (especially from Nats fans).
___

This is art

You can have your Picassian dreams or your Monetian landscapes. For me, I take the verdant beauty and incandescent symmetry of a ballfield over any varicolored canvas.

How can a person not be moved by such a sight?

(click to make image larger)

Why I love baseball, reason #30

Look at the beauty of that swing, the way the follow-through arm is parallel with the bat, the way the neck is in a perfect line with the middle of his body. This is the art of baseball, with its lines and shapes and angles screaming out to sculptors and painters to immortalize such a swing with bronze or marble or canvas. Add to it the aesthetic simplicity of the white on navy and the Old English D and you have a masterpiece worthy of the halls of Rome.

The beauty of a good swing is such that would make Michaelangelo cry.