When classes began to fill with students in mid-September (or late August if you go to that crack whore-infested institution across the way) many were confronted with one simple, mundane and pointless question: “What did you do this summer?” Pointless, unless of course you’re a Guardian sports writer who spent two weeks of his summer traveling in a van to eight different baseball stadiums, forgoing air conditioning, extensive human contact and, occasionally (not often, but occasionally) showers.
If this is the case, as it is for yours truly, then the summer’s experiences and stories are very appropriate, especially as we come upon the baseball playoffs, one of the four greatest times in a sports writer’s year, next to the Super Bowl, NBA Finals and when that drunken sailor got beat down at the Chargers game by guys wearing skirts.
How does traveling to eight baseball stadiums in June relate to baseball in October? As anyone who goes to a baseball game will tell you, the action itself is not always riveting. And when you see seven consecutive games turn into blowouts before the sixth inning, you realize that two things are necessary: staying interested by keeping a scorecard and talking. Sure, men aren’t always the most social of creatures, but two guys who spend nearly $1,000 realizing a childhood fantasy can become very conversational, especially when the topic is sports. And these conversations provide insight and analysis that becomes increasingly fun to revisit as the season wears on.
During the trip, as my friend Gary and I scoreboard-watched our hometown Angels, the closest team in their division was the Texas Rangers. I commented at one point on the impending division battle: “I’m sure glad the A’s are out of it this year.”
Later on, while watching the Nationals beat down the very same Rangers, Gary remarked: “These guys are for real. They’re in it for the long haul.”
A few days later, with the Baltimore Orioles visiting the Chicago White Sox, both Gary and I marveled at how Rafael Palmeiro was “as pure as apple pie.” OK, the last one was a lie, but, of course, you can see now just how the tables have turned.
And yet, some things never change. While the beauty and majesty of Wrigley Field nearly made me wet myself, the despair and disappointment of watching the Cubs get beat by two runs showed that lovable losers are still losers.
On the other side of Chicago, we saw the Sox get a huge lead, let it slip, and still pull out the victory, without much dramatic fashion and plenty of generic play.
In Kansas City we watched as Roger Clemens proved that at 42 he’s still as good a pitcher as Barry Bonds is a hitter, but without the steroids and bad attitude — or at least without the steroids.
Through it all though, the thing I realized during conversations and experiences was just how beautiful a sport baseball is. Sure, it can get tedious and when faced with the choice of looking at the mound to watch Dontrelle scratching his Willises or to see my pal Gary scratching his Brotmans, it can get a bit disgusting.
But if you can take the time to enjoy a well-hit sacrifice fly, identify the intricacies of the center field incline in Minute Maid Park or sit forward and truly witness the mental battle going on between pitcher and batter during a 3-2 count with bases loaded and two outs in the bottom of the ninth, then you do it, and enjoy it.
Don’t worry about work, about school, about family, friends, anything. Let yourself get caught up in the game, even if none of it matters.
At the end of the season, with division titles decided by a few games and one win keeping a team from the playoffs, it’s the meaningless games in June that really do seem to matter.
I came back from my two-week road trip tired, poor and kind of stinky, but I was able to remember that feeling I had each time I walked into a stadium and was transformed into that little kid going to his first big-league game. That momentary feeling is really what matters. I sure am glad I still have a full month of this stuff to enjoy.
