Do I Amuse You?

Last week the Chicago White Sox were in town, visiting my Orioles at Camden Yards. My friend Frank and I bought two sweet seats at the scalp-free zone (one of Baltimore’s best ideas) for $30 a pop, six rows from home plate, and the visitors’ dugout.

We sat next to a nice gentleman, Howard, a 78-year-young season-ticket holder. I really enjoyed our conversations. We also sat behind a foursome who scored sweet seats like we did. Nice enough crew, but one of the guys was the self-designated heckler. You know, that guy who tosses a few back and then throws out lame one-liners. No one really laughs, except for maybe a few nervous chuckles. The most annoying part is the constant repetition of the same “jokes”. We didn’t laugh the first time; what are you expecting the second and third?

Anyway, with great seats like these, this guy kept bugging the batters on deck, especially Ken Griffey Junior. Hey, we’ve got no problem with Junior. We were all excited to see a future Hall-of-Famer just a few feet away. And when he was warming up, everyone would whip out their cell phones and try and grab a quick picture, mostly of his back. Our local heckler tried to get him to turn around for a picture: “Hey, you’re no A-Rod but you’re still pretty good.” Cute, but obnoxious.

The third time Griffey was on deck, Frank asked me, “How do these players tune out the fans?” With authority, I said, “Aw, Frank. These guys are pros. The fans are so close in stadiums these days, and they’re at an opponent’s park half the year, they just tune them out. They have to.”

Dumbass repeats his taunt again, and Ken turns to him and says, “He’s behind me.” He pauses a beat, then adds “...in every stat.” Classic heckler comeback. All of us are rolling, even the heckler.

I was totally impressed, and laughing even harder because it was brilliant timing: silencing the heckler and totally negating my statement. But it did have me thinking…leading Alex Rodriguez in every stat? Really? Hey, it’s Junior. I’m not going to argue with him. I was actually hoping he would step up to the plate, look back at the defeated fan, call his shot pointing to right field and then belt one out, hitting the warehouse. But this guy wasn’t worth it, and it would have added another run to the routing they were giving Baltimore anyway.

Of course I had to check Junior’s stats against A-Rod tonight. Junior certainly isn’t leading him in 2008 in virtually any stat, except for his one triple (A-Rod has none). He is leading in most lifetime cumulative stats (so far), but in fairness, he has a five-year head start. And A-Rod still has a better lifetime batting average, on-base percentage and slugging percentage. But I bet he can’t shut up the hecklers.

What a great night!

I don’t remember seeing Bill & Ted there, but I think I mastered time travel. Why would I attempt to relive my youth, when they weren’t my glory days?

This was several years ago, but a friend of mine asked me if I was interested in joining an over-30 softball league. He said it’s all in fun and not competitive at all. Really? It’s not baseball but it’s still a competitive sport and it’s still a bunch of men. But they’re adults now and we’re all over 30. And I love playing baseball. How hard can softball be?

Oh. My. God.

Over 30 doesn’t mean old, or non-athletic, and it definitely doesn’t mean non-competitive. Some of these guys were huge and everyone was competitive.

It started with me being picked last. Awesome! I’m not very tall but I can still play. I just don’t look like I can play, especially when I’m standing next to Count Jockula.

Then there’s the good-natured taunting. Please. I think they made me cry, more than once. I just wanted to go home.

No, instead of enjoying myself I’m straight back to when I was 12, and awkward, where I didn’t care about making the big play, I just didn’t want to embarrass myself.

They put me in the outfield, of course, but in adult softball that means Action City. Although I am entirely capable of catching a fly ball, now the batters just pick their spot and hit them way short so I chase them like I don’t know how to play my position, or way over my head so I can pop my glove up just 80 feet shy of my target.

Now I begin the nerd-player mantra: “Please don’t hit it to me, don’t hit it to me, don’t hit it to me.” Hit it to the third baseman! I can back him up. He’ll look like the fool and I’ll be playing my position.

Then I get my turn at the plate. It’s slow-pitch. Who can’t hit a slowly pitched softball? After I realize everyone is watching me, apparently I can’t. If it came down the pike like a baseball, I’d have a chance. I’m fine in the cages. But even though it’s slowly pitched, it comes in a really steep arc. I actually have time to swing all three times in one pitch and I’m outta there!

After the strikeout comes the walk of shame. No one offers the insincere condolences I got when I was 12 like “You’ll get ‘em next time.” Total and absolute silence.

I play with the Brawny towel guys who all get home runs. They’re disappointed if it doesn’t clear the fence, which makes an evening of softball double-headers (they usually play two) a lot longer than I expected. Even if I do get a hit, I don’t exactly point to left field before I swing and I have to sprint to first base. Sprint? I haven’t sprinted in over 20 years. My quads are in hibernation and my hammies are tighter than my sphincter was when I was playing left field. When I jettison from home plate, for some reason my head suddenly weighs 400 pounds and I run like a Vaudeville tap dancer bringing it home, and wipe out right before I get to the actual base.

And if this hasn’t been fun enough, there’s the heckling. I have a million comebacks for nearly every situation except sports heckling. It’s like that nightmare when you’re being chased, and you’re legs are Jell-o and when you open your mouth to scream, nothing comes out. Except it’s not a dream - I’m paralyzed because I know I can’t trash talk when I’m going to suck.

Recovery time after a softball game for nerdletes like me is worse than a week-long bender (I can only imagine). Besides involuntarily reliving the events over and over in my head, and constantly checking over my shoulder to make sure no one is about to stuff me in a locker, I have to suffer through the muscle pain and make things up every time someone asks why I’m walking funny: “I’m auditioning for a John Cleese tribute.” And then I remember women play softball, only it’s fast pitch and they’re a lot better at this. You don’t have to ask, I’m ready to turn in my man card.

Just for fun my ass. I’m in my 40s and was made to feel like a pre-teen again. Why would I do that? Don’t fall for it, unless you’re a jock looking to regain some of your lost glory. Then I’m sure it’s fun for you, but I bet I can kick your ass at Risk or Jeopardy mothertrucker. What is "Be careful what you wish for, Alex?"

I know the story is three days old. And anyone who has ever liked, or actually still likes, the game of baseball has an opinion. I still like baseball. I still love the Baltimore Orioles. And I always have an opinion.

I don't enjoy nine seasons in a row under .500, or long losing streaks, but I'm used to it. And I love the underdog, both in this case and in cartoon form. So I've got nothing to complain about.

The Orioles fired manager Sam Perlozzo on Monday. I am not a walking library of baseball stats, or an expert in any sense of the word when it comes to sports. I am just a fan. But I've never understood the firing of a manager in mid-season for a slumping team. I understand you can't fire the owner, nor the players under contract. Some people feel someone should take the fall, but I don't agree one person is ever responsible for the actions of so many, and firing that one person offers a warped sense of satisfaction to those who want something to happen, even if that something is indirect and ultimately futile.

The manager doesn’t swing the bat, doesn’t pitch the ball, doesn’t drop routine fly balls, doesn’t forget to call off other players, doesn’t draft players or negotiate contracts, doesn’t sit his fat ass upon millions of dollars he refuses to spend on talent or pretend as an owner to understand or even care about the game in which he insists on meddling, and he doesn’t inspire adult, professional athletes to do what they were hired to do.

Firing the manager of the team is like keying your CFO's car when your company's stock plummets. It has zero impact on performance but it probably felt good for a minute if you're an a*hole.

I just returned from my first spring training trip. I went to Florida with my buddy Frank to see my favorite team, the Baltimore Orioles. With the World Baseball Classic in full swing, eleven starters were off representing their native countries. At first I was frustrated, but that passed before we even made it to our first game. Besides, it’s more fun witnessing new talent so you can say – “I remember when…” When we landed in Ft. Lauderdale, waiting for our baggage, I heard the voice of one of my baseball idols, Brooks Robinson. Frank called his name out; he turned to us and smiled, firmly shook our hands, and then went on his way. We didn’t ask for autographs. We didn’t ask for pictures. We just wanted to introduce ourselves and shake the hand of a legend. What a way to start a week of baseball!

At one of the games, I saw a t-shirt with a picture of a worn baseball and a caption that said “Life begins when the season starts.” New beginnings, everyone’s in first place, and spring means new life for so many reasons. This slogan could apply to any sport for your typical sports fan, but it just felt perfect at spring training in Florida, where the sun was out, the grass was green, and we had just left winter behind in Baltimore, even if just for a few days.

But why do I love baseball? First, I need something to tide me over until football. I never played football. I was too delicate. But I played baseball. Not well, but I loved it. I played little league for years, and my parents were at every game. And my parents weren’t the sort that insisted I be the best, or had fantasies of scholarships, or lived their own dreams vicariously through me. They loved to watch me have fun. And even make a few good plays.

Everyone who plays baseball or softball has a few moments they’ll never forget. A solid hit where there is no recoil or vibration from the bat. It’s so smooth you almost don’t feel it, except for the launch of the ball off the end of the bat. Or that one amazing catch. My best year was when I was 12 and played outfield, but was slightly off in my timing and judgment so I would make a last second adjustment and catch a fly ball with a stretch and a roll. I was unstoppable – just for a season. My plays looked outstanding, and it was all due to delayed timing. But hearing cheers and helping your team was the best. Especially after plenty of seasons in the outfield chanting to myself softly “don’t hit it to me, don’t hit it to me, don’t hit it to me” because missing that pop fly as another run scores is, well, just the opposite.

But playing is only part of my love of the game. My dad would take me to Pirates games when I was a boy, and it is by far one of my fondest memories. Baseball games weren’t televised regularly back in the day, and we lived hours from Pittsburgh. But my dad would get tickets and take me whenever he could. Plus I saw my all-time favorite player in person at Three Rivers Stadium – Roberto Clemente. You should read about him. He was an outstanding player, and an incredible man.

Sports fans sound like name-droppers, but when we say a player’s name in awe, it’s not just about stats (and never about money). It’s about true amazement at one’s hand-eye coordination and ability to perform in such a competitive and pure sport. Baseball fans are patient. For many, people it’s a slow-moving, boring game. For true fans it’s witnessing strategy, skill, drama and the anticipation of the next big play, or perfect pitching performance.

So I love playing the sport, and watching the sport. I have my fondest memories with my father watching me play, and taking in a game together. And although my son Sean is all grown up and isn’t a big baseball fan right now, he played when he was younger for the same reasons I did. My wife and I went to all his games and practices just like my folks. I also took him to his first major league game with my buddy Greg when he was only four or five years old (Sean, not Greg). I remember his excitement the days leading up to the game, the day of the game, and the days that followed. I also remember taking him a few years later to a Baltimore-Seattle game and witnessing his first bench-clearing brawl. As much as I tire of retaliatory pitching, a 20-minute slugfest really is something to behold.

My daughter Megan played softball for the same reasons Sean and I played baseball: for the fun of the game. When it no longer became fun [insert stories of team stacking, prima donnas and relentless parents here], she tired of it. Same went for Sean and I.

I also enjoy going to minor league games. Actually, I prefer them. We have a single-A affiliate of the Orioles about 45 minutes from our home, the Frederick Keys, and they’re wonderful. 2005 Carolina League Champions! Just like at spring training, the stadiums are small and intimate. You really feel up close, all seats are great and the players are approachable. With minor league ball, you’re witnessing players that are in the beginning of the system. They’re in it for the love of the game. They make next to nothing financially, so all hold full-time jobs during the off season. In fact, many players are housed by local residents like visiting exchange students in high school. They’re all looking to move up the system, or head straight to the big leagues (the show). And fans are right there with them, hoping to see them achieve their dream.

I’m not a sportswriter. I can’t recite stats, or records, or recall what year anyone did anything. I can’t explain every rule, describe every pitch or guess what moves the manager is about to make. But I just love this game. And everyone has a baseball story.

I’ll close with just one more. When I was a boy, my cousin Peter and I were visiting a few of our other cousins in Montreal, Quebec, back in the early 1970s. I was probably seven or eight years old. My Uncle John was friends with a player on a minor league team (he may have even been a Montreal Expo). We were headed to a game with our uncle to meet his friend and our car overheated on the way. We found an orange plastic cone on the road side, trudged into the woods and found a stream, then brought back water several times until the radiator was filled (after it cooled of course). Eventually we got back on the road but were hours late and missed nearly all of the game. But my uncle was able to find his friend and introduce him to two young fans who were thrilled beyond words. I may not remember his name, but I will never forget the moment. The minor league stadium was huge to this little boy, and the player larger than life. Meeting Brooks last week took me back to Montreal, and the Pirates games with my dad. I may be 42 now, but the feeling is no different. Baseball makes me feel like a boy and a son and a father and a player and a fan. Awestruck, I shook the hand of Brooks Robinson who looked me in the eye and smiled back at me because I was grinning like an idiot and he knew I simply love this game.