Thanks for nothing, fellas. Thanks for ruining another Friday night. I suppose I should thank you, though, for the fond and lingering –well, maybe not so lingering; maybe swiftly evaporating– memories of that glorious three-game winning streak.
FYI, for those who’ve inquired: I’ve had some pretty intense squabbles with Jumbo over the last week or so, and had told him that he wouldn’t be allowed back in the room until he wrote something that would qualify for a PG-13 rating. Ideally I’d like to see him shoot for a straight PG. He’s been working some seriously raw and apoplectic hard-R territory of late, and as we all well know, the game’s really about the kids. I’m not sure I could live with myself if I felt I was responsible for introducing a shitload of blue language into the vocabulary of some little shaver out there.
That said, I’m pretty damn close to letting Jumbo come back in here to take his whacks.
In the meantime, here’s Patrick Donnelly’s latest road dispatch from out West. Those paying proper attention will surely have noticed that the Twins are now officially an ugly 0-1 since I welcomed Donnelly aboard. Maybe that’s just a coincidence, but I guess we’re going to find out.
Grizzlies Stadium, Fresno
July 19, 2005
Fresno Grizzlies vs. Salt Lake Stingers, PCL (Triple-A)
The term “minor league” has become synonymous with substandard, low quality, entirely undesirable. Which brings me to Fresno.
Now, I don’t want to knock Fresno. It seems like a perfectly fine place to visit, maybe even to reside. Sparkling Grizzlies Stadium, home of the Fresno Grizzlies of the Pacific Coast League, is the centerpiece of plans for a downtown renewal that seem to be rolling along. The people are pleasant, the weather is nice (if you like 105 degrees and humid), and the children appear to be above average.
It’s just the baseball that’s minor league.
Now, of course I’ve been spoiled by living in a big-league city for the past 18 years, watching the Minnesota Twins, who even in their down years (also known as the 1990s) played a brand of baseball that could reasonably be called “Major League.” And after spending Monday night with the Atlanta Braves and San Francisco Giants at SBC Park, the next ballpark on my five-day tour would naturally pale by comparison, like watching a movie after seeing “The Godfather” or dating anybody after being married to Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Triple-A baseball, though, is truly the epitome of “minor league,” and the blame for that falls squarely at the feet of the men in cleats. These days, most hotshot prospects jump directly from Double-A to the big leagues, bypassing the traditional on-deck circle altogether. That leaves Triple-A ball littered with “organizational players,” guys who get stuck on the threshold of their dreams because two or three of their five tools are not quite good enough to get it done at the next level; and mostly washed-up ex-big leaguers who are on their way back down through the system, hoping against hope for one more taste of four-star room service.
The fans who showed up for Tuesday’s tilt between the Grizzlies and the Salt Lake Stingers (and that appeared to be me and about 400 of my closest friends) saw plenty of organizational guys hacking it up, a few legitimate prospects, and a handful of has-beens, including Salt Lake left fielder Curtis Pride (late of the Expos and Angels) and former Twins pitcher Matt Kinney, now toiling for Fresno, the top affiliate of the Giants. But we also were treated to the surprise appearance of two legitimate major leaguers — injured Giants Marquis Grissom and Edgardo Alfonzo, who were on injury rehab assignments in Fresno.
So it was with mixed expectations that I pulled into the local parking ramp, paid my five bucks (the same amount I pay in Minneapolis, though two blocks closer to the stadium), bought an $8 seat down the third-base line and entered the first Triple-A game of my baseball watching career. I decided to sit in the same general section as I occupied Monday night in San Francisco, but I didn’t look closely at my ticket until I’d grabbed a Newcastle (six bucks, on tap, very fresh) and found my section. Imagine my surprise when I realized — Bingo! — I must be in the front row! And I was. Not a bad value.
The game began as a pitchers’ duel, with Kinney and Stingers starter Chris Bootcheck belying their mediocre stats (6.15 and 5.32 ERAs, respectively) with strong showings early. Kinney retired the first seven batters before Ryan Budde homered in the third for a 1-0 lead, while Bootcheck was perfect through four innings.
And, more shocking, those four frames were completed in a brisk 35 minutes. The pace was unexpected for anybody familiar with Kinney’s tenure in Minnesota, where he wrote the book on bad body language, driving manager Tom Kelly crazy as he’d kick the dirt, circle the mound, and basically appear to be wishing he was anywhere in the world other than on the pitching rubber.
Grissom, who struck out in his first at-bat, broke up Bootcheck’s perfecto with a leadoff home run in the fifth, then circled the bases and called it a night, no doubt declaring himself ready to return to San Francisco. Alfonzo, who had three singles in his first rehab game on Monday, was not so fortunate — his bat looked slow as he slapped three dead-fish grounders before looping a duck snort to center for a weak single in his final at-bat.
For those who don’t like taut defensive struggles, the evening’s entertainment came from the liquid courage guys oozing out of a suite high above the third-base dugout. They decided to pick on Stingers catcher Jeff Mathis, breaking out the tired Darryl Strawberry-inspired chant of “MAAAA-THIS! MAAA-THIS. MAAA-THIS! YOU SUCK!” every time he came to the plate. Behind me, a young fan asked his parents why they were yelling so much. Mom replied, “Don’t worry — they’ll be gone by the sixth inning.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a few of them appeared to be gone already.
I will give the guys some credit, however. They did stick around past the sixth inning, and even showed some baseball smarts in their razzing, eventually chanting “Cucamonga!” at Mathis, referring to the Angels’ Class-A affiliate in Rancho Cucamonga.
As an organization, the Grizzlies trotted out a few other sideshows to keep the fans’ in their seats. For instance, between innings a bear-type mascot named “Wild Thing” climbed atop the dugouts and flung freebies into the crowd, including frisbees and hacky sacks (“Dude! Free hack!”). Of course, this only further cemented Fresno’s minor-league image — what, they couldn’t afford a T-shirt cannon?
Then there were the Diamond Dancers, five women who were, for lack of a better term, cheerleaders. At a baseball game. Decked out in green velvet, shaking gold pom-pons. At a baseball game. Yes, cheerleaders. At a baseball game. To each his own. At least the Diamond Dancers earned their keep — late in the game, they circulated through the crowd with garbage bags, collecting recyclable items from the remaining fans.
Ah, California!
The food was solid — a burrito served enchilada style for $6.50 and a three-dollar bottle of Diet Coke. And they let me keep the cap! How they knew I wouldn’t hurl it onto the field and trigger a riot, I’ll never know. I just appreciated the trust.
Back to the game, where Kinney cruised into the seventh, when his defense let him down. After Pride led off with a single, a bit of indecision up the middle led to a cheap infield hit for Luke Allen. When third baseman Brian Dallimore botched Mathis’ sacrifice bunt, the bases were loaded with nobody out. Brian Gordon’s sac fly put the Stingers ahead 2-1, and Adam Pavkovich drove in another with a single before Kinney got out of the jam.
The seventh-inning stretch featured the ballpark organ playing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame,” followed by John Denver’s stirring rendition of “Thank God I’m A Country Boy.” Again, no fake patriotism, no flag-waving, no Lee Greenwood, even in strongly right-wing Fresno. I’m just saying.
They even had the Kiss Cam, ripped off from the Metrodome, which undoubtedly ripped it off from someplace else. I hadn’t even noticed its absence Monday night in San Francisco, but I shouldn’t be surprised. The Giants don’t do the Kiss Cam for the same reason the Lynx don’t — some fans just aren’t prepared for what they might see.
With Kinney gone in the eighth, the bullpen faltered a bit, as Allen led off the ninth with a monster blast to straightaway center field, over a 30-foot batter’s eye. Too bad he didn’t pull it to right — instead of a $25,000 Subway Hot Spot, Grizzlies Stadium features a plank on the scoreboard that says, “Hit Sign, Win Fruit.”
The Grizz got one back in the bottom of the ninth on Mickey Lopez’s home run, but with the tying runs on base, Dallimore and Tony Torcato struck out to end it, 4-2 Salt Lake. The totals on the board were correct, and the game checked in at 2 hours, 27 minutes — meaning the last five innings took nearly two hours.
I crashed the box seats behind the plate for the final inning, and that’s where the differences between Triple-A and the majors were most obvious. The ball just sounded different coming off the bat. Many of these guys still have aluminum bat swings, wet-newspaper swats that too often produce sagging grounders that struggle to get through the bone-dry infield grass into the infielders’ waiting gloves. In Triple-A, the players generally get the job done — it just doesn’t always look pretty. Catchers staggering under foul popups before making bacon-saving catches; first basemen turning routine 3-1 groundouts into epic adventures; and all those soggy grounders.
That just won’t cut it in the bigs — that’s why they’re here. And by the way, if Minnesota doesn’t build a new Twins stadium, they’ll be there, too. And the Twin Cities can become a cold Fresno.
Although after 105 degrees, that doesn’t sound so bad right now.
Next Stop: San Luis Obispo
