6.14.01 ROCHESTER RED WINGS vs INDIANAPOLIS INDIANS
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A seriously hot, muggy afternoon and the Milwaukee-affiliate Indianapolis Indians are out there in their black jerseys. Who decides these things?
Another day of Rochester freaks on parade. I got to Frontier about half an hour early and, with an eye toward getting some photos of players loosening up and the park still mostly empty, made my way down to the first row on the first base side, just beyond the Red Wings dugout. After about five minutes sitting there, I was joined by another guy, fortyish, who stood beside me issuing slightly too-familiar encouragement to the various Red Wings who happened by. You know, like he’s buds with all of them. “Go get ’em, Jay,” he said solemnly when today’s starter, Jay Spurgeon, walked past on his way from the bullpen. The comment was met by what I’m sure this guy interpreted as the silent but appreciative acknowledgement of a warrior primed for battle; to me the look on Spurgeon’s face said something more along the lines of, “Get away from me, freak.”
A little closer to game time, the section I was sitting in still largely vacant, an usher came down to shoo me away. “Sir, I’m sorry, these seats are reserved for season-ticket holders.” Oh sure, of course, I said good-naturedly, making it plain that I had no intention of staying there.
He continued though, in the manner of one unaccustomed to playing the role of authority figure, not knowing when it’s okay to stop justifying one’s actions: “It’s just that some of the season ticket holders are complaining….” By this time I was already walking up the aisle, so it didn’t completely register until I had reseated myself. Wait a minute—some of the season-ticket holders are complaining? Complaining about what exactly? That I was breathing their air? I’d have happily moved if someone had said I was sitting in their seat, but honest to God, the only people down there were me, a couple guys sitting in the row behind me, and…a-ha! The freak! I looked down there and sure enough, who’s chatting up that very same usher but the president of the Middle-Aged Loser Red Wings Booster Club. Dick!
I ended up way up top behind home plate—“way up top” still being the equivalent of a field-level seat at any major league park—in a slim cresent of shade just beneath the broadcast booth, which was kind of nice. I always intend to bring a radio to listen to the Red Wings announcers, Joe’s Castellano and Altobelli (the latter of whom managed the Orioles to their last World Series appearance), who are actually quite good, but I never do. Today, however, I could clearly hear the broadcast through the open window behind me, no need for any transmission beyond that of the good old natural acoustic sort.
The Wings got off to a good start, Calvin Pickering driving in two runs with a first-inning double and catcher Frank Charles contributing a run-scoring sacrifice fly an inning later. It was right around this time that I was again approached, this time by a young, fit-looking guy asking if he could join me in the shade. Mid-twenties, I’d guess, blond, Wayfarers, friendly enough; we chatted about the game and it became apparent that he was fairly knowledgeable about the team and came often. If he didn’t come across as quite the sharpest knife in the drawer—a couple times I made jokes that really didn’t seem too advanced, which met with a silence that clearly indicated he had no idea an attempt at humor had even been made—that hardly mattered; I was enjoying the easy comradery of two guys drinking beer and talking baseball on a sunny afternoon.
Then it got a little weird. “My favorite cartoon…” he said, apropos of absolutely nothing, then, after a pause, less for effect it seemed than to organize his thoughts, “…is The Simpsons.” Uh-huh. Yeah, I replied, that’s a pretty funny one. He explained that he had watched the season finale a few days earlier, that they had shown several episodes in a row, the plots of which he haltingly explicated for me. “I’m gonna get something to eat,” he said.
The middle innings were quiet. My friend returned a little later with a burger. Again, unsolicited: “My hair used to be darker, but now it’s more blond.” That right? “Yeah, um, I made it more blond.” Happy with the results? “Oh, yeah.” Great, great. “I work at Wegman’s.”
(Wegman’s is the local supermarket chain. Like that explains anything.)
Spurgeon pitched a solid six innings but was replaced in the seventh by the still-shaky Chad Paronto, who gave up a run on a single by streaking second baseman Marco Scutaro and an inning later allowed the Indians to tie up the game with consecutive base hits. The Red Wings got the lead back in the bottom of the eighth, though, when Jose Leon, who entered the game mired in a 1-for-18 slump (see? It’s nice sitting in front of the announcers!), hammered the first pitch he saw from Indianapolis reliever Mike Penney over the wall in left-center. Red Wings win!
FINAL SCORE: RED WINGS 4, INDIANS 3
FOOD CONSUMED: The Hebrew National cart was open today, but no foot-longs. The regular hot dogs are still good though. I even had ’em put kraut on it. Some peanuts. A Genny.