From July 26, 1989. – JDW
There was no mistaking the voice on my porch singing Take Me Out To The Ballgame.
“Root, root, root for the home team. If they don’t win, it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out….”
“I thought you went to Florida and were never coming back.”
“Idle threat,” Barker replied, his eyes twinkling. “I decided to give this town another chance.”
“I’m sure they’ll all be pleased to hear that.”
“Is Commissioner Bogle still armed?”
“I guess so, but apparently we need more firepower. The city has called out the National Guard.”
“To protect Dick?,” Barker seemed amused. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper just to buy the guy a tank?”
“I think it has something to do with the War On Drugs.”
‘Well, that should attract some tourists. Been to Civic Stadium lately?”
“If memory serves, the last time, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were backing Bob Dylan through an encore of Like A Rolling Stone.”
“How does it feel to be on your own with no direction… a complete unknown… Ohhhhhh.”
“1986. I remember distinctly now. It was my third date with Norma Louise. I haven’t been on my own since.”
“The Beavers are opening a home stand against Calgary, and I have two box seats. We’re going.”
So, we went.
When’s the last time you went to Civic Stadium? When’s the last time you watched a professional baseball game? If you haven’t see the Portland Beavers, you just haven’t taken advantage of one of the city’s quintessential sports’ events.
You’re missing out.
Seems to me this town underestimates the ol’ Bevos. There are twenty-six (26) teams in the major leagues. The Beavers are Triple A, just one notch below the bigs. There probably aren’t fifty (50) teams in the world that can compete at this level. Some 125 countries with a population of two-point-five (2.5) billion, and we’ve got the Beavs.
Last week, 4,246 fans visited Civic Stadium for the opener with Calgary. The only music was the thump – or maybe thwack! – of the ball slamming into the catcher’s mitt at eighty-five (85) miles per hour, and the crack of the bat on those too infrequent occasions when hickory meets horsehide.
I like baseball because I view it as a half-full glass. It’s a metaphor for life. You can hip away, build a score piece-by-piece. Nibble here, proud there. Or you can crush the mother, picking up a run with a single stroke.
There’s a poetry about baseball. You can imagine – close your eyes real tight – Baryshnikov as a centerfielder gliding to his left, moving effortlessly, one hand up shading his eyes from the sun, then the leap.
THE LEAP!, as he sails against the fence to snag a would-be home run.
Watch a good second baseman turn a double-play.
Consider the grace of the first baseman as he essays a classical split to nab the runner on a throw in the dirt.
What is sport? What is art? Why should we differentiate between the two?
Performance counts. Always. There is no place to hide.
I think that’s one reason, a big reason, sport is so important in America today. So many of us function in relative anonymity. No one knows who we are. Our performance, good or bad, goes largely unnoticed. You do a good job, you can still lose it.
We are left exposed to the whims of fortune, the vagaries of change.
But, hit a home run, walk a batter with the bases loaded, let a ground ball shoot through your legs, steal a base, and we cannot hide, we cannot deny our inadequacies, we need not bost about our special talents.
Baseball players, all athletes, lay themselves on the line. They push the edge of the envelope of vulnerability. They test themselves and each other in a crucible of competition that cannot be ignored.
It’s scheduled. Tickets are sold. Children are watching.
What they saw this night was an outstanding display of power hitting by the aptly named Cannons. Back-to-back homers in the first inning did little to diminish the crowd’s enthusiasm. There was plenty of time.
Unfortunately, the Bevos never could get it going, while Calgary never stopped. A couple more taters contributed to a 7-2 final score.
I didn’t really mind. The winning pitcher was a kid who’s already blown one chance this year with the big league Seattle Mariners. He hadn’t won a game in two months. He was past due. At twenty-five (25), he deserves another shot.
“What do you want to do now?”, Barker asked.
“Go home,” I told him.
“You must be kidding. Let’s check out the Kingston.”
I wasn’t kidding, but we checked it out.
As usual, ESPN is playing on about six (6) TV’s. John Davidson, whose career has apparently taken a major nose dive, is hosting “Boating World.”
Luckily, the sound is turned off.
A couple of pints of Labatt’s arrived and I asked Barker what he thought about the game.
“I always want the home team to win. If you have to lose, do it out of sight of your loved ones. Hey, didn’t this used to be a sports bar?”
“I know what you mean. These kids were in grade school when I hit my last home run.”
“That’s right, you used to play some ball, didn’t you?
“Heck, I ruled Little league,” I said without much exaggeration. “I was nearly six-feet tall and one-hundred-and-seventy (170) pounds. The Methodist Church and the volunteer fire department were chasing me like F-16s after a Libyan vessel in international waters. I’d take the mound, cast a dark shadow and the other team would pray for rain.”
“So, who’d you end up playing for?”
“Actually, a local country club offered me four (4) weeks of summer camp and a date with Walter Cronkite’s beautiful blonde daughter.”
“She pushing forty-two (42), probably twice divorced with four (4) kids.”
“Yeah, you’re right. But, oh, how she loved to watch me play ball.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvQ5hZadFok