RECAP: Hundreds of fans of all ages, including
“Professor Baseball” my eleven year-old baseball guru, his unstinting
grandmother and myself, are waiting patiently by the rail before a Spring
Training outing in Phoenix to procure the autographs of the arriving ballplayers. It is hot.
And to date, the awaited ballplayers have yet to arrive.
This section should have probably gone in yesterday. You can “Cut” and “Paste” it if you
want. Insert after the “Where we waited
for the ballplayers” paragraph. Or enjoy
it belatedly where it is.
Before locating “The Professor” and his grandma amongst the
autograph-seeking throng, I stepped into the stadium’s Souvenir Emporium to
purchase a commemorative t-shirt to supplement my always au courrant wardrobe. Then,
as an appreciative gesture – and because of the innately generous guy that I am
– I buy an Angels-branded baseball
for “The Professor”, to present to any of his favorite ballplayers to
sign.
Somewhat uncomfortable with my acquisitional maneuver, I meekly
mumble, “I don’t know if you need this, but I got you something for them to
sign.”
I should have known better. “The Professor” had come fully prepared,
having brought along a ball and a bat, ready to be autographed. Requiring no further appurtenances, he instead
thoughtfully handed me a pen.
Apparently, the young baseball prodigy knew me better than I knew him. I had not thought
about bringing a pen.
FAST FORWARD:
We are now passing the one-hour mark in waiting for the ballplayers
or, in the context of the story I told yesterday, three “Queen
Elizabeths.” It was clear that we would
not be watching batting practice that afternoon; there was no longer time
before the beginning of the game.
(During our wait, I had learned that the two teams had actually – uncharacteristically
– already taken batting practice before we were permitted into the ballpark. So instead of batting practice and
autographs, it was no batting
practice and a wait.
Did I mention it was hot?
Finally, about twenty minutes before game time, the players
straggled into the arena, first the visiting White Sox, whom, if they desired to, would be signing autographs at
the opposite end of the field, and then the Angels.
The gathering immediately came to life. There were random shouts of favorite players’
names to attract their attention. This
is what we’d been waiting for. Our “Big
Moment” had finally arrived.
The players unilaterally ignored us, chatting casually amongst
themselves, stretching and jogging lightly to loosen up. Not a one of them looked in our direction or
responded to our entreaties.
Lowering the bar, some fans directed their attentions to the
arriving manager, Mike Scioscia, hoping that at least the “Skipper” – and former ballplayer – would comply.
Not a chance.
Mike was kibbitizing with a catcher – I knew he was a
catcher because he was already wearing his shin guards – who’s number was “98”
– the Spring Training high numbers allotted to players having little chance of
making the major league squad. It
appeared that the manager would rather mislead a player slated for Salt Lake
City with his attentions than walk a few steps to scribble his signature on
paraphernalia or extended scraps of paper for the fans.
By then, I was in quintessential “Passive-Resistance” mode, thinking,
“Maybe I should sign the baseball and
throw it graciously to them!” We had waited over an hour, and nobody,
apparently, seemed to care.
With a single exception.
“Number 54.” (Which
was also ominously high.)
For a while at least, “54” proceeded patiently down the
rail, signing autographs for anyone who requested one. Finally – before he reached us – he was
called away.
The ballgame was ready to begin.
It was an interesting game, greatly enhanced by my “Teacher”,
who sat dutifully beside me, illuminating me to the subtleties of the game. As the pitchers warmed up, he predicted with
remarkable accuracy which pitches they would be throwing before they threw them
– “Fast ball”; “Slider”; “Breaking ball.”
He also informed me that, since this was a “split-squad”
encounter, after the front-liners played their obligatory three or four (early Spring
Training) innings, they would be replaced on the field by the third string players on the roster, the second stringers vying for roster
positions in their “split squad” appearance elsewhere.
He alerted me to the coaches, relaying their “signs”, from
the dugout to the third base coach, from the third base coach to the base
runner. I had truthfully never noticed
that before. And boy, did those signs
seem complicated. And I’m
a college graduate!
The contest tightened noticeably in the later innings. In fact, in the bottom of the eighth, the Angels, behind virtually the entire day,
were now threatening to go ahead.
The P.A. announcer reported the name of the batter on whose onerous
shoulders rested the outcome of the game.
“Now batting,” echoed the loudspeaker, “…Roger Kieschnick.”
I have this theory – easily disputable but a theory
nonetheless – that in baseball, your name inevitably determines your
destiny. Mickey Mantle – a “can’t miss”
Hall of Famer.
Roger Kieschnick…?
The mere mentioning of his name – that’s all it took.
“Something you will never hear in the World Series”, I self-assuredly predict:
“‘It’s up to Kieschnick.’”
And as he – not surprisingly to those who believe deeply in
“Namal Determinism” – took “Strike Three” in a “make-or-break” situation:
“Mighty Kieschnick has struck out.”
The defeated batter turns and trudges back to the
dugout. It was only then that I notice
his number:
It was “54.”
Roger Kieschnick:
Great guy.
No chance whatsoever.
(Not that I didn’t feel terrible about my behavior. But what are you gonna do?)
Thank you Shelly – who gives me an intellectual workout, and
shows me valuable stretches as well – Vikki – who makes the best scones west of
Piccadilly Circus –
Erika – who hooks us up with our tickets, (and also invited
us to a friend’s pilates salon opening whose “Picasso-caliber” demonstration
made what I’m able to achieve in pilates
look like crayoning) – and, as always, my indispensible “Teacher”:
May your future be as sparkling as your performance on the field.
And by the way – sorry –
I forgot to return your pen.
1 comment:
Checked out Roger's stats. In severely limited major league service with the Giants and Arizona, he has struck out 45 times in 125 AB, 36%. Average, .200. We may never learn the proper pronunciation of his name.
But, at least you got a new pen out of the deal (or a pen that's new to you).
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