4.21.01 ROCHESTER
RED WINGS vs PAWTUCKET RED SOX
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So I’ve been to enough Red Wings games now that the thing has started happening that happens whenever you see a ballclub on a regular basis. The players become familiar. Familiar for good reasons, familiar for bad reasons; it hardly matters. They’re the guys you know, and they’re playing against the guys you don’t know, and whether you’re a fan of the team or not, a kind of affinity inevitably develops. You might not even like the guys—you might be hoping for them to fail each time they go to the plate, you might savor every misplayed ball and wayward pitch—but you’ve become acquainted with them over time, their habits and tendencies and strengths and weaknesses, and consequently each event that you witness takes on a significance it would otherwise lack. The end result is, if not outright affection for the team, then, unfailingly, a certain sympathy.
Hell, it happened to me last year with the Anaheim Angels, I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit. And, though I was careful to contain it, it is precisely that sympathy which forms the seed of true fandom. Not the bandwagoning bravado of the Yankees fan in L.A. (or hell, Rochester for that matter) who’s never once seen them play but proudly bears their logo wherever he goes: this is not fandom, per se, so much as the kind of simple-minded identification with some large and successful abstraction—usually in the ridiculous hope that others might somehow mistake that success for their own—that compels people to put giant Nike stickers in the back windows of their cars.
True fandom, instead, knows no brand. True fandom goes to the park night after night, come what may. True fandom is not necessarily the long-suffering perserverence of those who return to Wrigley or Fenway or—must I say it?—Chavez Ravine, season after season, though it can be. Perhaps—and I’m just thinking out loud here, or its written equivalent—the only guarantee that fandom is genuine can be found when the object of that fandom possesses zero cultural resonance whatsoever. You know what I mean: Think Angels. Think Devil Rays. Think minor league baseball anywhere, except maybe Durham.
The Rochester Red Wings having considerably less to overcome than their major league Anaheim counterparts, it is perhaps not surprising then that I should find myself increasingly affected by this sympathy.
There’s wiry Eugene Kingsale, the doe-eyed 24-year-old outfielder from Aruba who bats lead-off and shows bunt on the first pitch of every game; Steve Sisco, the San Fernando Valley–bred journeyman infielder, who, 31 and error-prone at third base, is doubtless hoping he can keep up that .310 average of his; Calvin “Slim” Pickering, the 300-pound slugging DH and occassional first baseman who apparently figures that his physical resemblance to Mo Vaughn excuses him from running out a ground ball, like, ever; the young, mellifluously-named Dominican infielders Carlos Casimiro and Eddy Garabito, each with a knack for timely hitting; Kenny Woods in center, currently batting .391, who came over from Scranton/Wilkes-Barre in the off-season after leading them to the play-offs in 2000; struggling Wady Almonte in right, who’s done little since that opening day home run besides let balls drop in the outfield; and first-year manager Andy Etchebarren, a crusty, old-school guy who can’t for the life of him figure out what the hell is going on with his team defensively.
Today it was more of the same for the Red Wings, as a strong start by lefty John Parrish was undone by inexplicably bad play in the field. Parrish looked good through 51ž3 innings, keeping hitters off-balance with a mixture of 90-plus-mph fastballs and well-placed off-speed pitches. But Sisco, Casimiro, and Almonte conspired to give away three runs in the third, and another Sisco error allowed two more in the sixth.
PawSox starter Rafael Roque—last seen by most people giving up home runs no. 64 to Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa both in 1998—was also solid, allowing just one hit in his five innings, and there wasn’t much for the Pawtucket bullpen to worry about, what with their team being up by ten runs and all.
FINAL SCORE: PAWSOX 10, RED WINGS 3
FOOD CONSUMED: My wife wanted to try the nachos. Not as bad as those at Edison Field, not as good as those at Dodger Stadium, but what do you expect? Not enough cheese, too salty chips were our chief complaints. Another Hebrew National foot-long. Some peanuts. A Genny.