7.16.01 AUBURN DOUBLEDAYS vs VERMONT EXPOS
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My first foray into the hinterlands having proved so rewarding, I was eager to repeat my success with a trip to Auburn, home of the New York–Penn League Blue Jays–affiliate Doubledays. Looking to duplicate my Batavia experience as nearly as possible, I again forsook the evil Thruway for more inviting back roads. What I failed to take into account, however, was that this was a Tuesday night, that I was leaving the house right around quittin’ time, and the frequently overlooked truism that there are in fact only two seasons in the eastern United States: Winter and Road Construction. The steady rain, which I took on faith would magically dissipate come game time, didn’t help either, nor did the sketchy directions to the ballpark that I got from the team’s website.
So, two hours of claustrophobic stop-and-go on what turned out to be distinctly unpastoral back roads later, I ended up driving through Auburn without seeing any trace of an actual town. None of the familiar slowing to 30 mph, driving past a bunch of beautifully restored old houses, stopping at the one main intersection and marvelling at the unbelievably cool old post office on the corner that one becomes accustomed to around here. Just some industrial-looking buildings, some signs pointing down side streets, and then suburban sprawl chain-store hell and a sign saying welcome to whatever the next town was.
I finally found my way back to the street that the ballpark was allegedly on and, with darkness pressing and the rain still not having abated, followed it through a ramshackle district of run-down houses and unattractively-sided buildings. I never did see any sign of downtown Auburn—perhaps this was it?—but at long last I found myself in front of Falcon Park.
Weary and not a little frazzled from the long drive and frustrating search, I was futher confused by the lack of an obvious ticket booth. People were filing past a turnstile holding little yellow pieces of paper, so I asked the person taking the slips where I could get one. She pointed around a dark corner, but as I dubiously followed her instruction I was halted by a cop on the sidewalk who thrust in front of me a slip of paper of his own. Not understanding what this was—a coupon? A raffle ticket?—I asked him what it was for. His response was completely unintelligible, though, and when he then turned away to call after some other passersby, I took it as a sign that a comprehensible answer would not be soon forthcoming.
It was a ticket to the game, it turned out, which I less gratefully than bewilderedly used to gain entry to the park. The rain still falling and the game having nonetheless just started, I found a seat under the grandstand behind home plate and surveyed the scene. Odd. The whole ballpark looked like it had been built from the same kit the one in Batavia came in. It was unsettling, how uncannily reminiscent it was of the park I’d visited two nights before, and this combined with everything else contributed to a strange sensation creeping over me, a feeling that, in fact, none of this was real. Indeed, the people around me, these citizens of a town I couldn’t be sure even existed, had a distinctly spectral aspect to them. The figures on the field, too, mimicking the actions of baseball players under the steady drizzle and the ghostly light from the towers overhead, seemed just that: ghosts.
The clincher, though, was the mascot. “Abner”—the team is the Doubledays, remember—eschews the grossly misshapen abdomens and friendly cartoon animal mugs common to the minor league ballpark mascot. Instead, he is dressed in a uniform identical to that worn by the players on the field, with the exception of one feature: a freakishly oversized human head. Except for its scale and a pair of anachronistic wraparound mutton chops signifying the desired era, the face’s gigantic features are curiously unexaggerated. The overall effect is nothing short of terrifying.
I stayed for the whole nine innings, took pictures, even found a box score online the next day, but I’m still not convinced that any of it actually happened. More evidence: the Vermont Expos? That can’t be real, can it?
FINAL SCORE: DOUBLEDAYS 6, EXPOS 2
FOOD CONSUMED: Two hot dogs with mustard and onions, hold the ectoplasm.