–Illustration by James Dankert
Fridays aren’t gonna work for me. I’m not a writer, dammit. I can’t be expected to drag my ass home from the day job (and I do mean drag my ass; some days it feels like I’m hauling a Volkswagon Beetle behind me), watch a baseball game, and then sit down and grind out some nonsense simply because Zellar feels like taking the day off and making merry.
Sometimes I feel like making merry myself, even if I do have a substantially different definition of what that phrase means than the average person. Last night, for instance: I didn’t feel up to venturing out to the Dome, so I hunkered down at home with a twelve-pack of Milwaukee’s Best (truly the best beer-bang for your buck when you’re pinching pennies) and a bag of Cheetos, which I enjoy because they stain the shit out of my face, hands, and clothes and when I finish a bag I look like I’ve actually been doing hard labor in some kind of mine. I also ate some pork and beans (mixed with Ken Davis barbecue sauce) cold and right out of the can. I like to imagine that I might be one of the last people in America –other than, perhaps, a few rare old-school hobos, if in fact there remain any such characters in existence– who still eats pork and beans out of the can.
What, some people occasionally wonder, does any of this have to do with baseball? And my answer is: everything. The game is all about ritual and routine, and I have as many –if different– rituals as a fan as I ever did as a player. Being a baseball fan should not be a passive activity, and it’s not an appropriate activity for the self-conscious. Athletes always talk about being in “the zone,” and even as a spectator the game is only truly excruciating or enjoyable to me if I can manage to find my way into a zone of oblivion all my own. Maybe that’s why I prefer sitting at home and watching on television to putting up with the aggravations and distractions of a crowd at the ballpark. When I actually go to a game, someone or something is always intruding on my oblivion, and these intrusions are often incredibly hostile. I also don’t wish to have my responses and behavior choreographed by anything other than what happens on the field.
Some people –many people– can’t stand to have their ballpark “experience” ruined by the behavior of a genuine fan, but that’s not my problem. When people object to my behavior at a game –and this happens all the time– it’s inevitably out of concern for the kids around me. One of the most pathetic fallacies in the world is that baseball is all about the kids. That’s nonsense. Unless a kid knows how to keep score, define the infield fly rule, and pay attention, parents or guardians have no business bringing them to a baseball game. Anybody who’s had to sit around a gaggle of squirming brats at the Dome recognizes that most kids would rather be somewhere else. Most of the time they’d rather be standing in line at the concession stands or running up the aisle to the bathroom.
I’ve been booed mercilessly on a number of occasions for wrestling a foul ball away from some kid (or pack of feral kids), and when this has happened I can tell you in all honesty that I’ve never felt anything but exultant. I’ve caught maybe a dozen balls over the years, and, truth be told, they don’t mean anything to me at this point, but I’ll still wade into the throng out of principle. I can see all sorts of lessons in this for the kids: Life’s not fair. Respect your elders. It’s a dog-eat-dog world and little dogs should stay the hell out of the way of the big dogs. The sturdier animal gets the foul ball. Shut your mouth and watch the game or go to Camp Snoopy where you belong. Don’t mess with Jumbo.
I can’t find much to bitch about regarding last night’s game. I love watching Carlos Silva pitch, and his performance last night was a thing of beauty. It’s easy to forget that this is a big guy who’s supposedly pitching with a messed-up knee.
I still don’t much like the offense of this team, and worry about the strength of the bench over the long haul. If you’re one of these people who seriously believes that Nick Punto or Juan Castro are the answers to any question worth asking, the odds aren’t very good that we’re ever going to be able to have a civilized discourse.
Because Silva was so great last night we can try to forget about the fact that the Twins stranded eleven runners, and Torii Hunter (.237 BA, .314 OBP, .396 SLG) grounded into two double plays with the bases loaded, and is now 0-8 with the bags packed for the season. This is a guy who right now is a serious candidate for the most overrated player in all of baseball.
The futility of the entire team with the bases loaded (9-51 for a .176 BA) is ridiculous, and might be either a pure fluke or a sign that the Twins just aren’t a very disciplined team. Right now I’d say it’s probably a little bit of both.
Leave a Reply Cancel reply