3.15.02 CHICAGO WHITE SOX vs ANAHEIM ANGELS
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Jesus, did baseball even go away? Here it is, back already, they say, but
it seems like it’s been droning away in the background the whole time, reports
on the morning radio that you try to block out in the shower by thinking of
something else, or just plugging your ears and humming—nah nah nah
nah, not listening, not listening—like the daily dispatches from
the Middle East, Sharon this, Arafat that, Selig this, Fehr that. Is it just
me, or do these jokers share more than a passing resemblance? Two pairs of
obstinate dinosaurs whose commitment to perpetuating ancient grudges threatens
the very existence of the people and institutions they’ve been chosen to lead?
Two lying, monomaniacal bastards so intent on settling scores and so fearful
of being seen as capitulating to the other that they’d rather doom their followers
to a never-ending cycle of misery than even for a moment entertain the possibility
of compromise? Can’t we just fire/assassinate all these a-holes and start
over?
Baseball fans are luckier than Israelis and Palestinians, though. (Obviously.)
We have baseball season to look forward to.
If our first winter in Rochester taught us anything, it’s that you want to
plan your trip to someplace warm for March, not December, and that’s what
we did this time around. A visit home to California was capped by a too-brief
stay in our favorite desert resort town, Tucson, Arizona—nicely coinciding
with spring training, and how ’bout that.
I remembered Tucson Electric Field from my visit two years ago as a parched,
arid arena with spotty grass and who knows, maybe some bleached bones in the
outfield. Of course, that visit occurred in July. Tucson in March is a quite
different place, as the ballpark before us this afternoon seemed to insist,
all verdant green and brilliant sunlight and purple mountains in the distance.
And here, the visiting Angels in their new red-trimmed, periwinkle-purged
uniforms looking, finally, somewhat dignified at least, and there the White
Sox for once not baking beneath their black caps and jerseys, the thermometer
pegged at a perfect and unwavering 78 degrees. Not a bad way to start the
season. Not bad at all.
I’d never been to a spring training game before. Here’s what you see: young,
borderline guys like Angels catcher Jose Molina hitting three singles and
a double and throwing out Kenny Lofton stealing, or Angels outfielder Jeff
Davanon making a spectacular diving catch in center, while established vets
like Kenny Lofton casually let balls drop in front of them and, well, get
caught stealing. You also see guys smiling more on the field, though, and
fans cheering for good plays regardless of who made them, and umpires just
rolling their eyes and shrugging when dickheads like Kenny Lofton start arguing
balls and strikes with them. It’s spring, bro. You’re on the team. Who
cares?
FINAL SCORE: ANGELS 12, WHITE SOX 5
LIFE DURING WARTIME:
The White Sox website warned about the new security measures that would be
in effect at the ballpark: no backpacks, no large bags, no camera bags. It
was this last that concerned me. I always bring a camera, and, because it’s
not quite small enough to be comfortably pocketed, I carry it in a little
pouch with a shoulder strap: probably not what they mean when they say “camera
bag,” but nevertheless, undeniably, at some level a very literal camera
bag. We were being dropped off at the ballpark, so it’s not like there
was a car to return to if someone at the gate made an issue out of it. The
possibility of conflict loomed, conflict borne of precisely the kind of bureaucratic
absurdity that tends to elicit from me reactions about which I’m sometimes
embarrassed later. Not good. I watched carefully as the people ahead of us
in line had their (large, if you ask me) bags given a cursory once-over, and,
reaching the front of the line, offered myself up for scrutiny. I might as
well have been invisible to the relevant authorities, though, as the only
person who seemed to want anything from me was the guy tearing tickets, who
helpfully extended his hand. And that was that.
Still, there was no mistaking the game tickets’ colorful new stars and stripes motif, and even though it probably wasn’t any different when I came here two years ago, it was also kind of hard to ignore the omnipresent A-10s, F-16s and C-130s flying into and out of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base next door.