6.10.01 ROCHESTER RED WINGS vs COLUMBUS CLIPPERS
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Now appearing as designated hitter for the Red Wings after having earned his release from the Cubs by going .176 over two full months: Damon Buford. As if we didn’t have enough problems without Ex-Cubs Factor to contend with.
On an unrelated note, I don’t think I’ve mentioned recently how much I flat-out fucking love living here. It’s worth repeating every so often, and not, as it might appear, merely as a way of convincing myself of the idea. Last night I walked to the Eastman House to see a screening of Frederick Wiseman’s Titicut Follies. Unlike his later films, which frequently check in at four-plus hours, this one was over in an economical 81 minutes, and when I left the theater it was still light outside, the sky a brilliant spectrum of azure bridging the pale yellow glow hovering over downtown with the deep indigo of encroaching night in the east. I looked at my watch. It was exactly 9:30. It was warm; the air held a mugginess that stopped well short of being unpleasant. I started back the couple miles toward home, past the stately old mansions along East Avenue, the beautiful row houses of Oxford Street, the shops and restaurants of Park Avenue, nearly all of them still open, flowers, cats, people everywhere, walking, talking on their front porches and balconies as evening faded into night. It was a perfect half hour. How many of those do you get?
Similarly, the Sunday afternoon walk to the ballpark has lost none of its charm. To the contrary, it’s only that much better now that the the grays and browns of early spring have given way to the blues and greens (and reds, and yellows, and pinks, and purples) of early summer.
Even when it rains it’s wonderful. There’s not really any such thing as a rain delay at a ballgame where I come from. In southern California it’s either raining or it’s not. If it’s raining, the ballgame’s over, period. Here, though, you can go from sunny and beautiful to pissing rain back to sunny and beautiful in the space of fifteen minutes. So you bring an umbrella. Clouds move in overhead, it starts to sprinkle a little, no big deal, you chill. It starts raining a little harder, okay, you break out the hood. Now this is something I never understood when I saw it on TV: you can sit outside in the rain under an umbrella at a ballgame and be perfectly comfortable! You don’t get wet! Play continues on the field; after a few minutes the rain tapers off to the point at which you contemplate folding up the umbrella; you’re just about to do so when suddenly it stops, there’s a brief pause, and then, WHAM! You’re sitting at the bottom of Niagara, the umbrella is useless, the players sprint off the field, everyone around you is running for cover so you get smart and do the same, and once safely under the stands you’re able to take stock of your soaked items of clothing. Five minutes later the rain has stopped. The sun is out. The groundskeepers are pouring sacks of dirt on the infield and pitcher’s mound, you grab a couple napkins with which to wipe off your seat and head back. Play resumes; you sit in the sun and dry off. Repeat as necessary.
No rain today, though. Clear skies and 80 degrees teamed with the drawing power of the Yankees-affiliate Columbus Clippers to entice a crowd of nearly 8,000 to Frontier Field, where they were treated to the spectacle of yet another Red Wings meltdown. Rehabbing John Bale, who went only two innings against Durham last week, again attempted a start but was quickly spelled by Chad Paronto, this time after only fourteen pitches; while not allowing a hit, the two combined for four walks and two wild pitches in the first inning, and no fewer than three fielding errors behind them meant the Red Wings took their first at-bat of the day trailing by four runs. Four runs off no hits!
Things went downhill from there. Eddy Garabito led off with a walk and got to second on a fielder’s choice. Then, with two outs and the suddenly hot Calvin Pickering ahead in the count, Garabito stole third. Or, at least, he tried to. Clippers catcher Pascual Matos threw him out easily. Pickering was not pleased. As they took the field for the top of the second, the fat man audibly chastised the second baseman, in full view of the crowd, the Clippers, and Red Wings manager Andy Etchebarren. Etch, already pissed as hell at the pathetic play of his team, exploded. Out came Pickering, benched indefinitely.
The Red Wings actually managed to come back in the third when Buford hit a two-run homer off recent Cuban defector Adrian “El Duquecito” Hernandez. Of course, it would have been a three-run homer had Brian Roberts not stupidly run himself into an out at second base moments earlier. Not that it mattered. The Clippers went on to score 10 runs, only four of them earned, in the course of this three-and-a-half-hour debacle. Two more dropped fly balls, one a virtually exact replay of Garabito’s “never mind” stunt a week ago. Three times the Red Wings ran themselves out of innings. I’m not smiling wanly and offering encouragment anymore. I’m booing my ass off. It’s tough love time in Rochester.
FINAL SCORE: CLIPPERS 10, RED WINGS 6
FOOD CONSUMED: More chicken fingers, which didn’t sit so well with my wife, who has a lower tolerance than me for things fried. One more lesson learned.