Baseball Memories

In the Bleachers in Baltimore

    "If people don't want to come out to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them?" - Yogi Berra

What I loved about being an Orioles fan back in the day was that a bleacher seat was $4.50 at old Memorial Stadium.  When we had nothing to do we’d head through the bowels of Baltimore and catch a game. We’d sit in the left field line bleachers and watch our mediocre Orioles with a few greats on the team like Cal Ripken and a tornado of a closer called Gregg Olson who in 1989 was the first reliever to win Rookie of the Year. During many games we were like the stadium security, making sure the drunks remained civil and often we would heckle the most obnoxious or profane hecklers.  On one occasion we refereed a skirmish as we sat between some rednecks and a group of preppie punks. When the hicks started to make like they were actually willing to fight over a baseball game we told them to shut the fuck up and watch the game. They did.  At a game against Texas I screamed out at the top of my lungs to their runner on third, Julio Franco, “Julio, I have all your albums!” Granted, not a great joke but the entire left side of Memorial Stadium laughed at it.

My First and Only World Series Game

     "You can't sit on a lead and run a few plays into the line and just kill the clock.  You've got to throw the ball over the goddamn plate and give the other man his chance.  That's why baseball is the greatest game of them all. " - Earl Weaver

The Florida Marlins made it to the 1997 World Series after only five years as a team. Bill and I set off for Joe Robbie Stadium for game one without tickets convinced we could get in somehow. Unwilling to pay what the scalpers were charging we were resigned to watching the game on TV in a parking lot beer tent.  After the first inning Bill came back from the can to say that they had opened up another section of the stadium and we got tickets for $20! A great game between Liván Hernández and Orel Hershiser with homers by Moisés Alou and Charles Johnson.  Rob Nen threw the ball over the goddamn plate and got the save. The Fish won 7-4.  To quote James Thurber (in his story of a cigar smoking, beer drinking, trash-talking midget) quoting Casey Stengel, you can look it up.

Loosen Your Tie and Act Your Age

   "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" - Satchel Paige 

   "The trick is growing up without growing old." - Casey Stengel

I like the fact that at a ballgame you can act like a complete idiot and people actually encourage you to do so. When you’re 21 you can act like an idiot anywhere without attracting much attention but at a ballgame even seniors can get crazy. It’s a game where everyone is expected to stand up and sing a silly song. In Seattle after “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” most people remain standing to shake their ass to “Louie Louie” hoping to get captured on the jumbo cam.

The Longest Game of My Life

“The clock doesn't matter in baseball. Time stands still or moves backwards.     Theoretically, one game could go on forever. Some seem to.” - Herb Caen

June 8, 1998. Bill and I again at Joe Robbie stadium to watch the Marlins take on the Toronto Blue Jays in interleague play with Roger Clemens on the mound for the Blue Jays (I didn’t even remember that).  There were 17,414 fans at the start of the game.  17 innings later (and if I remember correctly there was a rain delay) the Marlins prevailed 4-3. That’s ten innings without beer if anyone is counting…and we were. At the end there were less than 300 people in the bleachers if you count Bill and me (like we had anything better to do). A five hour and six minute game; sometimes baseball is hard.

Guilty Pleasures and Bad Habits

Bad habits and the American pastime go together like nothing else. I was about to say that the best thing about my stay in Chicago is the fact that I can smoke cigars while I watch a baseball game on TV at the local smoke shop. I hold off on that statement because that wouldn’t be fair to all of the friends and family I have here (but they are all at work or school as I sit here and smoke, watch the Yankees and the Tigers battle it out in game two of their series, and type out this essay).

Seattle has all but outlawed smoking. Not only are you allowed to smoke indoors here, but Chicago also doesn’t have an enormous tax on tobacco products as they do in Seattle. It’s pretty easy to have willpower when cigars are horribly expensive and there is no place to smoke them when you do come up with the money to buy them. The only thing that I have to worry about here is cancer; that can wait until after the World Series.

This place doesn’t serve alcohol so I have been reeled in as far as one of my bad habits is concerned, but it’s 2:30 in the afternoon and I rarely have a drink this early—even during the playoffs. There is another game on later this evening so it isn’t as if all hope is lost as far as having a cocktail today. Maybe by the end of the day I can hit all of my bad habit bases. You can call it hitting for the cycle of vices.

If I could go back in time I would put on a suit and hat and go to a baseball game when they allowed fans to smoke cigars at the ballpark. I’m sure that there are better uses for a time machine, but I can’t think of one now as I puff on a wonderful La Gloria Cubana R Series #6 and stare at the big screen television as Detroit tries to hang on to a 4-3 lead in the 8th inning.

Almost as good as this cigar is seeing Alex Rodriguez, a former Mariner and Yankee sell-out, strike out repeatedly in this game. With the Mariners sitting out the playoffs yet again, I can at least take pleasure in rooting against the Yankees, no matter who they are playing—I don’t care if it’s the Al Qaeda all stars. I think that being an anti-Yankee fan is one of my good habits.

My cigar lasted long enough to see the Tigers hang on to their 4-3 lead and tie the series against the Yankees at 1-1. Tied up in front of the cigar shop was my brother’s dog, a very patient German Shepard. I had a short walk home, dinner to cook, and another baseball game to watch.

Mecca And The Vatican Rolled Into One

Although a life-long fan of baseball, I have been to very few professional ballparks. I have lived in three major league cities: Baltimore, Miami, and now Seattle. I did more than my share of riding the pine in the bleachers in these three towns. It has never taken much of an excuse to get me to go to a game and they were all enjoyable. I’ve been to a World Series game in Miami and a few playoff games here in Seattle, but by far my biggest thrill thus far was going to Wrigley Field for a game this past Memorial Day weekend.

I’ve seen Wrigley so many times on TV that I feel like I’ve been there, but the sad truth is that up until this past Thursday I was just a virtual fan of the 100 year old stadium.

My first impression of Wrigley could not have been better. We parked across the street from Murphy’s Bleachers, a great bar somewhere beyond right-center field. It was a beautiful day in Chicago and the outside patio of the bar was already filled with fans performing their pre-game ritual of consuming the communion of baseball which differs slightly from the rite that I learned growing up Catholic. The blood and flesh of baseball consists of beer and a hot dog. I like mustard on my communion wafer and I went back to the bar to have another round from the chalice. Here at Wrigley the chalice takes the form of a 16 ounce can of Old Milwaukee. The blood of baseball costs $5.50 outside at Murphy’s—which is expensive—and $5.50 inside the ballpark—which is incredibly inexpensive.

We walked around the small city block that encompasses the park just to see the neighborhood and scope out the other bars. I’ve only been to one game there but I can already say without hesitation that Murphy’s is my Wrigley Field pre-game tradition, and that is something that I don’t take casually.

The injured and completely hapless Cubs played Atlanta on this afternoon of May 25, 2006. Seeing that this is baseball all of the facts of the game are somewhere in the record books for anyone to see. Take it from someone who was there: don’t bother. This was probably the worst major league baseball that I have ever seen live—and I’ve seen some lousy baseball in my career as a fan. The bush-league play didn’t affect our enjoyment of the game in the least. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else in the sellout crowd of over 40,000.

Since we were a group of 11, some of whom care little for the game, I introduced everyone to my beer cup betting game that I have described in detail somewhere in my writing. The rules of the game necessitate the need for everyone to watch every single pitch that is thrown, and watch we all did. Try pulling that off with a group of 11. I was disappointed that the two kids participating didn’t win one of the pots but I supposed it is important for them to learn, sooner better than later, that life is cruel. I won my pot when my batter hit a home run. Sorry kids and don’t forget to put in an extra buck when you hand me my winnings.

To answer the question that I asked several weeks ago it turns out that after everyone sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” they don’t play a song on the P.A. at Wrigley as they do at other parks, but they do play “YMCA” at a later break in the game. I think that they need a new tradition at Wrigley. They need to dump “YMCA” and find a cool song to play at the end of the 7th inning stretch.

There Is a Word for Life Without Baseball: Winter

It isn’t winter just yet. Once again baseball has come through at the end of the season with some of the most exciting games I’ve had the pleasure to watch in my life as a fan. I would find it difficult to believe that there could possibly be another American city besides Boston that has rooted harder for the Red Sox than Seattle. The Sox have served as the surrogate Mariners team that has succumbed to the Yankees onslaught on so many previous occasions, both in the regular and post season. Boisterous crowds gathered around televisions at Seattle bars last night and cheered wildly when Boston made the final put-out against the Yankees.

I have to say that in my life as a fan, watching the Sox beat the Yankees in the seventh and final game in the division series ranked higher on my joy meter than when I lived in Florida and the Marlins won the World Series. I’m not a Boston fan, never have been. What I always have been is an anti-Yankee fan, born in the cheap seats of Baltimore’s old Memorial Stadium. I hate to use words like ‘love’ and ‘hate’ in any sentence about a game so I’ll say that New York was a team I liked to dislike.

Seattle fans are now, after seven games, as familiar with the intricacies of the Boston Red Sox as we are with our own team. Seattle has a lot of transplants from the other end of the country but not enough to explain the sea of fans sporting Red Sox apparel. I think I can safely say that if a team from Cuba was playing the Yankees in game seven of the playoffs we’d be wearing their hat, but I think Seattle’s affinity for Boston goes beyond the adage that our favorite team is the Mariners and whoever is playing the Yankees. Let’s face it, most baseball teams lose a lot and many haven’t won a World Series in this century or the last. Maybe if the Yanks can go 25-30 years without winning the Series I’ll start cheering for them.

Most fans in Seattle had all but given up on baseball after the Mariners’ terrible year, and the thought of watching the Yankees march inexorably to the Series was too much to take. In game three with the Yanks already leading the series 2-0 Boston began its slide to yet another loss. I couldn’t watch and left the game in the sixth inning. I got an unwanted phone call later in the evening with the report that Boston lost the game 18-9. I thought I was done with baseball for the year. I bought some warm clothes and I thought I could survive without baseball until next spring.

Of course I kept watching, what's the alternative? Football? Practice piano? Do something even remotely constructive? If you read the papers you know the rest of the story and the Yankees/Red Sox series has only been half of it. Almost completely forgotten (at least by AL fans) has been the incredible series in the other league which has also gone to seven games. Winter will come, but baseball has been putting up a truly heroic fight.

The Joy of Ichiro

“Ichiro changes your mind about what is possible,” was what Raul Ibañez had to say after Ibañez tied a major league record with six hits in the Mariners 16-6 rout over the Angels in Anaheim. Ibañez seemed to wave off the importance of his stellar performance to pay tribute to his Japanese teammate—a very Ichiro thing to do. Ichiro had four hits of his own and needs only ten hits in ten games to tie George Sisler’s record of 257 hits in a single season, a record which has stood since 1920. Ichiro has ten more games to break what has to be one of the longest standing records in professional sports.

Ten games to get ten hits is all but a shoe-in for the first Japanese position player in Major League Baseball. Two days ago Ichiro’s prospects seemed anything but possible. After a tough series with Oakland the Mariners right fielder needed 21 hits, an uphill battle at best. 11 hits later along with two intentional walks in 13 at-bats and now it’s a much different picture. He went from almost written-off to almost a sure thing in three games, not that I have ever stopped believing that Ichiro can do just about anything on the field.

Back at the beginning of the season when Mariner’s manager Bob Melvin coached Ichiro to look at more pitches and take more balls, he was all but dismissed by a lot of fans. While batting .290 people were saying that pitchers had figured him out. After the All-Star break Ichiro went back to hitting his way and his way is now .374 and rising. He also has 35 stolen bases to compliment the fact that he is one of the best right fielders in baseball.

To go along with the fact that he is one of the best players in baseball, I would say that he is undoubtedly the coolest guy on the field. His cool signature shirt sleeve tug that he does before every pitch would be annoying for anyone but the best hitter in the game. On Ichiro’s first road trip to Oakland after he joined the Mariner’s in 2000 some fans threw coins at him in the outfield. After the game reporters asked him about the unruly behavior and he said that he thought the coins had fallen out of the sky. Now opposing fans study him like a book, a really good book. After a hitting clinic he put on against the Chicago White Sox last month, the opposing fans gave Ichiro a standing ovation after he reached first safely for the fifth consecutive time that evening. Standing on the bag taking off his batting elbow pad, Ichiro looked around in confusion as to what all the hubbub was about.

About all Ichiro has said about the possibility of breaking Sisler’s 84 year old record is that it was a different game back then. He still speaks little and always through an interpreter even though you just know the guy probably has as good a command over English as he does over a high fastball. Ichiro doesn’t talk trash and what is more refreshing is that he doesn’t spew out a lot of phony false modesty. What he does best of all is get hits.

He gets hits in a way that is probably revolutionizing the way children look at hitting. He is right handed but bats left to get him closer to first base at the end of his variety of swings. Ichiro’s repertoire of swings includes a golf shot which was made famous while he was still playing in Japan. He actually hit a ball that the pitcher had bounced in the dirt in front of the plate. He has a ferociously fast slugging swing that he rarely pulls out. He uses it as a sort of statement. When Ichiro faced National League pitching ace Kevin Brown for the first time he hit a home run on the first pitch Brown delivered. Somehow you knew that that wasn’t an accident. A lot of Ichiro’s swings look like delicate tennis backhands. In the first at bat of the 2000 All-Star game held in Seattle, Ichiro beat Randy Johnson to first base—the first time I had seen a runner beat the pitcher covering first base. Johnson shook his head in disbelief.

What I have always admired most about Ichiro is the fact that he only is 5’9” (my height) and 160 pounds (I have 20 pounds on him) yet he is one of the best players in the game; this in an era of almost daily reports of steroid use. I was a small kid and I could never hit well. I wish that I had Ichiro as an example when I was a kid. We always just tried to hit the ball as hard as we could. It was always the bigger, fatter kids who hit the ball over the fence, Ichiro has taught us that it’s OK to dribble the ball down the line and beat the throw to first.

When Ichiro does break the season hits record he won’t talk trash, he won’t mumble something awkward, phony, and modest—à la Barry Bonds—just expect something you don’t get in sports much in this era. Ichiro embodies something that I haven’t even heard anyone mention since I was a kid playing sports and now it seems almost quaint and corny. It’s called sportsmanship. Remember that?

Major League Memories

Today is the opening day of Major League Baseball (As far as Mariner fans are concerned). Life is good. I’ll be watching the M’s play the Angels at Seattle’s beautiful ballpark in the Pioneer Square section of town. I refuse to call Seattle’s ball park by its official corporate name—they don’t pay me anything to call it that. I will meet all of my other friends who were lucky enough to have found tickets. We’ll have a beer or two at one of our traditional pre-game watering holes like the J&M Saloon or FX McCory’s. I’ll eat a hot dog, settle down with a cup of coffee, and take in a ball game.

MAJOR LEAGUE MEMORIES

Baltimore Orioles My baseball-addicted friends and I are rather intense when we are at the park. We used to be the clowns of the left field bleachers at Baltimore’s old Memorial Stadium. Admission was $4.50 and a beer was less back then (1987-1991). We rarely drank much at the games because we were just too busy watching the game. We would bet on every inning, every at bat, and sometimes on every pitch. Don’t try any of that “baseball is boring” shit on this crowd or you could very well get thrown out of the section. Anything that got in the way of our watching the game was asking for it from this group. We would heckle the hecklers, shout down the loudmouths, and God help you if you booed Cal Ripkin.

I loved talking to the old timers around us; people who had been Orioles fans since the beginning, fathers teaching their sons how to keep score, grand fathers telling their grand kids about the days before the designated hitter. It was from the depths of Memorial Stadium’s left field bleachers that the best baseball betting game was invented by my friends Andy and Tom, and me.

On the night the best betting game was invented, Andy, Tom, and I had been elevated from our lowly bleacher seat status to the lofty heights of a sky box suite through some work connections. We were eating and drinking for free with about ten other people we had never met before. To break the ice we started our usual degenerate betting games like guessing what the pitcher would throw next or which team would score first. From this our game—BALTIMORE BEER CUP BASEBALL--was hatched.

BALTIMORE BEER CUP BASEBALL official rules:

Every one who wants to play puts a dollar in an empty beer cup. One person takes the cup. That person takes the first batter. If the batter hits an extra base hit the person with the cup keeps the kitty. If the batter fails to get an extra base hit that person puts another dollar in the cup and passes it on to the next person. If he walks you just pass the cup with no penalty. If your batter strikes out, hits into a double play, or flies out to the warning track you must put in two dollars before passing the cup. If your batter hits a home run all other players must give you an extra dollar. After someone takes the pot everyone must ante up again and play resumes.

The beauty of our game is that it gets non-fans involved in every play of the game—something real baseball fans do anyway. I wouldn’t suggest you play with more than ten people and 6-7 is ideal. During the course of the game any player has the right to yell out “Embellishment” and add another rule which must be approved by a majority of participants. Have fun.

Florida Marlins It is October 1997 and the first game of the World Series between the Florida Marlins and the Cleveland Indians. A friend and I don’t have tickets but we feel we deserve to go to this game by the mere fact that we are Florida’s most avid baseball fans. Joe Robbie Stadium is a huge dual-purpose arena that holds 70,000 fans for football so we figure we have a chance—there can’t be that many baseball fans in the whole state. We get there early, at least an hour and a half before the first pitch. The Marlins usually draw less people than an art show here in south Florida. Most of the fans don’t know the difference between a balk and an earned run.

Can’t we just take some sort of baseball test to get into the game? The Marlins need at least a couple of knowledgeable fans if they really want to win the Series. We run across a couple of scalpers who are all asking upwards of $500 for tickets—a little out of our price range. As game time approaches our chances are looking worse and worse. As the National Anthem is being played we are watching the action on TV outside the stadium in one of the beer tents. We resign ourselves to watching the game from here and console ourselves by saying, “At least we tried. At least we’re here.”

At the end of the first inning my friend goes to take a leak or whatever. He comes back flashing two tickets. I ask him how much he paid and he says $20. He just happened to be walking by a ticket booth as they reopened to sell seats in a section that they hadn’t planned on opening. It’s perhaps the end of the second inning by the time we climb up to our noose-bleeds. We are at a World Series game—the first for both of us.

Seattle Mariners One of my favorite things is to be out somewhere in the Cascade Mountains, climbing or mountain biking all day, and wrapping it up when the light starts to fade. In the summer at this latitude the light lasts pretty late, and it’s almost always sunny. On other evenings I will sit by a mountain stream, smoke a cigar, and watch the sun set, but on game days we are eager to pack up the gear and head back to Seattle. We usually need to drive a couple of miles west to pick up the radio signal. If we are really lucky we will break into the middle of a good game and we won’t lose the signal at crucial moments meandering through the mountain passes. If we are truly blessed we will make it back to Seattle in time to find a bar with a TV. I always feel like I actually deserve a beer on days like these. The beer always tastes better on nights when the Mariners win.

WALKING HOME AFTER THE GAME 

Baseball Rules

I threw a baseball around for an hour or so yesterday in Discovery Park. Sometimes it's hard for me to understand how I can be so entertained by throwing a ball back and forth. The only thing that would have made this beautiful end-of-summer day better would have been listening to the Mariners on the radio while playing.

I don’t think that there is another sport that is so gratifying to listen to on the radio. Tuning in a baseball game is like having someone tell you a story. I love to hear car radios playing the game when I am out walking around town. The broadcasts are like an electrical current that runs through Seattle or like a sheet of music that every baseball fan is reading from. I know what you are thinking but it’s OK to mix metaphors when you are talking about baseball.

The game started at 7pm last night. I hadn’t had much to eat so we quickly ran through places where we could eat and watch the game, which was being played down the coast at Anaheim. Pesos, a Mexican joint in lower Queen Anne, has food, beer, and a TV. The easiest decision I made all day.

We sat down at the bar about ten minutes before Ichiro was due to lead off the game. The problem was that they had Monday Night Football on the screen. I don’t care for football but I really hate football at the end of the baseball season when it interferes with the most exciting games of the year. No one seemed to be watching football so the bartender switched over for us.

The game was all a Mariners’ fan could ask for when their team is still in contention for the playoffs. The 40 year old veteran pitcher, Jamie Moyer, won his 20th game of the year—his second 20 game season. Left fielder Randy Winn hit an inside-the-park two-run home run. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone hit an inside-the-park homer and it hadn’t been done in Anaheim since 1984. I was just saying how I have never seen a no-hitter—either live or on TV.

The Mariners’ chances for the playoffs are tenuous at best but at least for today (until game time) Mariners’ fans are happy. With any luck we’ll have a few more weeks of baseball weather here in Seattle. A few more weeks of throwing, hitting, catching, and--if we’re lucky--watching the M’s play into the post season.

Bringing Home the Baby

I’ve been buying up baseball gear these days. I have been scouring yard sales and thrift stores for used mitts, balls, and bats. I have vague plans of traveling to Cuba—a baseball obsessed island. My plan is to take a big duffel bag of used baseball gear with me and give it away as I travel. I have a fantasy that they will name a ballpark after me in appreciation of my goodwill. Leftbanker Stadium! That has a nice ring to it. Perhaps one of the kids receiving a glove will go on to play in Las Grandes Ligas.

I have been trying to find another good, used glove for myself. The mitt I now use I’ve had for a couple years. I was driving down the street one day and I saw it lying in the middle of the road. I didn’t even have to get out of my car to retrieve it. It’s not a bad glove but I just felt that since the kids are all grown and out of the house I was in a good financial position to treat myself to a new mitt.

I would prefer to get a used glove to spare myself the hassle of breaking in a new one. It was just like that with my kids. I adopted them after they had already spent most of their lives attending military school so I was spared all of the messy parent stuff. Now it’s just “Yes, sir” and “no, sir.”

After unsuccessfully looking for a used glove I broke down and bought a brand spanking new one. I spent more time in the sporting goods store looking at mitts than I did at the adoption agency. Gloves last a long time so you have to be careful picking one out.

My new MacGregor mitt is more beautiful than any new born. It is also about as useless as a baby and twice as much work. I think the last time I had to break in a new glove I was carrying a Bonanza lunch box to school (Little Joe was so cool and now that I think about it I think Hoss was probably gay).

I lathered up my new mitt with oil. It soaked it up like a sponge. I gave it another thorough basting with oil, put a ball in the pocket, wrapped it in a plastic bag, and stuck it under my mattress. If techniques for breaking in a new mitt have changed since I was in the fourth grade someone please let me know. Anybody want to play catch?

UPDATE The MacGregor glove didn't really work out and will go to the Cuban Allstars. I bought a Mizuno glove that cost a fortune. I hope I'm happy with the Mizuno.

Wood, Leather, Grass, and Dirt

It’s a pastime—something you do—it’s entertainment—something you watch—and it’s a shared experience—something you talk about. And that’s marvelous but you can apply those three criteria to other things. What makes baseball so special is that it’s the best game that’s ever been devised.

--Robert Creamer

Right now the best game ever devised is having its championship. It's called the World Series. The games begin at five o’clock out here on the West Coast, something that recalls past eras when lots of baseball games were played during the day. I remember running home from school as a kid to watch the Series. The early games are not a nod to baseball’s past but a practical matter because both teams involved are from this West Coast. Starting the games while the sun is still shining out west is the only way to hit the TV prime time on the other coast.

Baseball is incredibly simple on one hand—you hit a ball and run around a diamond. On the other hand it is a game I have played and watched my entire life yet I still see things I’ve never witnessed before. No one who loves the game would ever say that it is slow or boring. Everything matters in baseball; even the pauses are calculated and loaded with strategy.

As I start to write about baseball I am overwhelmed by memories starting from earliest childhood. I grew up in a Catholic neighborhood so getting enough kids for a game was simply a matter of walking outside with your glove, ball, and bat. We would start early in the morning on summer days and we wouldn’t even stop for lunch. We’d play baseball and variations on the game like these:

500 One guy would hit balls to kids in the outfield. You would get 100 points for catching a pop fly and 25 for fielding a grounder. If you dropped a ball points were subtracted (and you got laughed at). The first one to 500 won and then got to bat.

PICKLE The classic game of a player being caught in a run-down between bases. If you have an extra kid as a back-up baseman proper procedure assures an automatic out, but with just two basemen it was more interesting. Invariably the base runner got bonked on the head with the ball.

BURN OUT Two kids stand about ten feet apart and throw the ball at each other as hard as they can. I probably learned something valuable about something from playing Burn Out. I got more than a few lumps on my head and many fat lips from this fun game.

CATCH If I had a nickel for every hour I have spent playing catch in my life I would own all of Major League Baseball. Catching and throwing things is a very American thing in sports. If you doubt this, try playing catch in a foreign country where they don’t play baseball. I guarantee that the locals will stare in astonishment at your skill. Have you ever watched those Palestinians kids throw rocks at the Israelis? What a bunch of weenie arms. Send over a little league team and the Israeli Army would surrender under a barrage of fastballs.

The Mariners didn't make the play-offs. My other favorite team is whoever is playing the Yankees. To say that I was happy to see the Yankees get beat in the post season is an enormous understatement. I don't think I have felt that good since Apollo 13 returned safely to earth. When people ask me who I like in the Series I just say that I want to see it go to seven games. I like to see the season dragged out for as long as possible. Maybe the seventh game can go into extra innings and last all through the winter. Theoretically it could happen. There is no time limit in baseball.

King of the Hill

“The game’s on in ten minutes. Want to watch it at Floyd’s?”

“Uh, that’s at the bottom of the hill. Why don’t you ride up to Hoyt’s? After the game all you have to do is coast down the hill.”

The game was the Mariners against the Texas Rangers, Hoyt’s is a bar, and the hill is the brutally steep Queen Anne hill. The guy riding up it would be me.

It rarely ever occurs to me to drive my car for short distances like this around town. Parking is a nightmare where I live and doesn’t improve around town. Anyway, it isn’t like I’m afraid to ride up a steep hill, that’s what I do for fun.

I had seven minutes before the first pitch and I wanted to watch Ichiro lead off. I just about blew out a lung huffing up Queen Anne. I passed two guys walking their bikes up the hill. It always seems like more work to walk your bike than ride but I wouldn’t think less of anyone bailing out on this particular hill. Looking up this hill from the bottom strikes terror into the hearts of even some hard-core cyclists. At one point the grade is 18%. Ay caramba.

I locked my bike in the rack in front of Hoyt’s and ran, panting, up to the bar. Too late, Ichiro has lead off with a home run and was followed by another by Desi Relaford. An auspicious beginning to a game in the clutch of play-off hopes.

Around the third inning the bartender turned on the Monday Night Football game and turned the volume up all over the bar. The Mariners’ game was still playing on one of the TV’s but the football broadcast was annoying. I should have noticed that the bartender was a football fan. All of the signs were obvious: protruding forehead, hairy hands, a slight bend in his posture, and the inability to master fire.

“Check, please.”

Between innings we rode over to an incongruously located blue-collar bar my friend calls Moe’s Tavern (for those of you from another planet Moe's Tavern is where Homer Simpson gets drunk). Moe’s is a vestigial part of Queen Anne’s former status as a modest neighborhood of working-class families. Now this neighborhood is strictly yuppie-ville and Moe’s is as out of place as it is unfashionable. Moe’s has a TV and beer so we sit down next to the other chain-smoking remnants from Queen Anne’s past to watch the last few innings.

The last few innings are a disaster for the Mariners’ and their hopes of playing in the post season. I leave after Alex Rodriguez’s second three-run home run. It is getting dark early these days (8pm) and riding in the dark is something I try to avoid unless it is really late and there is no traffic.

Moe’s lies a few blocks on the back of Queen Anne hill. I am racing against the failing light on this beautifully clear evening. People are out walking their dogs. The lights are starting to come on in the gorgeous Victorian homes that have all been restored to their former glory and then soome by the Seattle elite and those lucky enough to have bought into this neighborhood before it became fashionable and horribly expensive. No matter how much of a hurry I am in I can always find the time to ride past Kerry Park. Perched on the top of the hill, Kerry Park looks over the Seattle skyline with views of the Sound and Mount Rainier when weather permits. Weather on this evening is very much permitting. It doesn’t permit any better than this.

There is a crowd in this small patch of grass watching as the skyline lights up and the sun sets. The dormant volcano has only an apostrophe of a cloud above it. Camera shutters sound as I coast along the walk-way in the park. The view from Kerry Park on a clear late-summer evening is worth a stop--even if I have to ride home in the dark.