Category Archives: Baseball

We’re just outside Louisville, Kentucky, tonight. Neither of us had ever been to Kentucky before.

There are more trees here south of the Ohio River. The roads curve a bit more. We’re in Eastern Daylight Time again. Drivers have a bit more attitude. It’s a nice wayspot.

We left Saint Louis this morning, but yesterday morning, we fled Branson at a leisurely pace.

Yesterday afternoon, we visited the Gateway Arch, the federal government’s shot at a Missouri tourist trap. It was a bit disappointing to wait in line for almost an hour to take a four minute capsule ride to peer out tiny windows. Below, the animatronic Native Americans in the Museum of Westward Expansion talked on and on whether anyone listened or not. And the employees in Jefferson’s gift shop had the surliest attitude of any workers I’d ever met.

And then, yesterday evening, we went to the new Busch Stadium. If U.S. Cellular Field (where the evil White Sox play) is hell with nice curtains, then Busch Stadium is a sort of beautiful ante-chamber of evil full of nice-seeming people and a small handful of people who didn’t get (or couldn’t read) the “be nice to tourists until we can eat their souls” memo. The park is nice, with comfortable seats and good hot dogs and loyal, enthusiastic fans.

But those fans have a nasty, brutish side. “CUBS SUCK!” one yelled at me as I headed down to get ice cream. A few innings later another said, “Hey, I could have been a Cubbie, except that I knew both my parents.” I turned to the person next to me: “Picking on the Cubs is like Dick Cheney hunting; there’s just no sport in it.”

But the game was very good, and I got my revenge. The Indians beat the Cardinals 3-1. Yay! And, Wickman, even though you’re dead to me, you did well last night . . . I guess. . . .

[ed. note: Fabulous guest writer Lisa brings you another posting.]

Hidee-ho neighboreenos! Here we are in Branson, Missouri. Wild, wacky, weird Branson, Missouri. It’s hard to describe the experience that is Branson. I once heard it described as the hillbilly Vegas which may be pretty close in the end. I’d feel worse about saying that except they have t-shirts shops every ten feet that loudly proclaim Branson (and the Ozarks) as a place for hillbillies (also pirates… you figure that one out). We’re under the target age demographic, I think. There are large showplaces all along route 76 which runs through the center of Branson. There are, however, signs for these shows every ten feet (I kid you not) all the way from Springfield, thiry miles away. It’s like the Wall Drug signs only really every few feet rather than every hundred miles. As for the performers, we’ve decided that this is the place where all the Hee-Haw performers you thought were dead have gone to. They’ve also built a replica of the Titanic but, oddly, only half of the boat.

We amused ourselves today by walking up and down the main strip here and playing mini-golf. One thing I’ve (re)discovered is that I’m really, really bad at mini-golf. Jeff beat me both rounds but the second round he beat me by 18 strokes. And here’s why … because when his ball hit mine, it knocked my ball away from the hole but when my ball hit his, it knocked his into the hole. INTO THE DANG HOLE. How does that happen? He hits his over a fence into the rocks and then sinks the next shot. I hit the ball under the dinosaur and my next shot ends up further under the dinosaur (we’ve got it on film to prove it).

Now for the random thoughts portion of our broadcast. We’re heading to St. Louis tomorrow for more baseball! They’ve got a new ballpark that we’re excited to see. Some bugs, when they hit the windshield, become molecularly bonded to the glass. Bad sunburns will blister. People who get off the duck boat tours and insist on blowing the quacky noise-maker in your face are seriously annoying.

Bob Wickman, you’re dead to me.

True, you made the final two outs last week after the previous two relievers gave up five runs, but you did give up one of your own (if my scorecard is correct).

But tonight you couldn’t find the strike zone and the two Brewers you walked scored on Geoff Jenkins’s long single. Boo!

Poor Jake Westbrook. He’s only given up three runs over 16 innings (2 earned) but has only squeaked out one win. Leave the kid in next time!

The trouble with rooting against a team — such as we did Sunday against the White Sox — is that fate may call in its markers. Tuesday we went to Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs . . . my team . . . my lovable band of Northside ne’er-do-wells. When I was in seventh grade, it was the first major league ballpark I visited; the Cubs lost to the Astros. The next year, my stepfather took the family to a game; I don’t remember the Cubs winning. In 2002, on our way to a wedding in Madison, Wisconsin, Lisa and I spent the afternoon watching the Cubbies lose to the Pirates. The Pirates! On Tuesday evening we had seats not far behind home plate to watch the Cubs play the Astros.

We have no love or antipathy for the Houston Astros, but we love the Cubs. But the Cubs are not easy to love. Emmylou Harris, who sings “beautiful, sad songs” once told the Times that she doesn’t have enough soul to be a Cubs fan. So it wasn’t surprising that Andy Pettitte, Lisa’s favorite pitcher, only allowed one run over seven innings in an eventual 9-2 win. But I definitely have to tip my hat to Chris Burke who had five runs on four hits in five plate appearances! C’est la vie.

Our bad luck for the home team unfortunately did not continue last night when the Red Sox lost the rubber game against the Minnesota Twins 5-3. Many times we had seen the Sox draw huge fans in their road games, and finally we got to be part of a loud chant of “Let’s go Red Sox” to the annoyance of the Twins fans around us. The game was quite well pitched by both sides, and we all held out hope until the final out.

The Twins play in the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome — emphasis on “dome.” Domes usually aren’t good for baseball. They’re too big, with too many seats for a typical baseball draw. They have bad geometry, since they’re made for football. If the seats aren’t full of rowdy fans, they have a wicked echo. The worst baseball stadium (thankfully no longer in use) was Montréal’s Stade Olympique, which had all the charm of a Soviet-era apartment block. We watched a game there in 2002, four rows behind home plate. There were maybe 4,000 people there with 500 scouts filling in the upper deck. To our left were pro scouts with radar guns and stopwatches and World Series rings. But I digress . . . The Metrodome isn’t a great place for baseball, but it isn’t a bad place to watch a game either. The fans love their team, including Jason Mauer, a local kid batting over .370. Our friend Karmi (not a baseball fan) almost enjoyed herself. Funny things happen in a dome.

Tomorrow, another game. This time in Milwaukee.

I like Chicago. It’s always been one of my favorite cities. It’s no New York or San Francisco, but it is full of big city activities while remaining laid back and visitor friendly. A traveler can easily walk around the downtown, which is lively all the time and always feels safe. The “L” is easy to use and cheap. There are many cultural attractions — though not as many as New York or San Francisco — and I don’t think any American city surpasses Chicago for modern architecture. Shopping is plentiful and concentrated. So whether we would have fun here was never a question.

Yesterday was our first nontravel day and our first baseball game. Beforehand we managed a trip to the Shedd Aquarium and a walk through Grant Park. I don’t think I’ve ever been to an aquarium — though I had two fish in the apartment who met unfortunate ends. There were kids everywhere, but I felt like a kid myself seeing all of the wonderful exhibits: the coral reef fish, the sharks, the beluga whales, the dolphins, the wee vibrant tropical frogs. Iguanas and geckos and chameleons and monitor lizards and caimans accompanied a very large komodo dragon in a special exhibit.

Today we walked around the loop to admire the architecture, take in the hokey Sears Tower Skydeck, and lounge in Millennium Park. Lisa didn’t much care for the Gehry-designed outdoor concert shell, but we both liked Cloud Gate, the reflective blob that transfixes everyone. We had mixed results with shopping. We had absolutely no luck with our attempts to visit the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, as it’s been closed for over a year due to security worries. (Damn terrorists and culture of fear!)

Yesterday evening, we went to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cleveland Indians. For the uninitiated, it’s worth knowing that, as a lifelong Cubs fan, I hate the White Sox . . . loathe the White Sox . . . detest the White Sox. When they won the World Series last year, it almost killed me to watch the games. But we’re visiting the park not the team. Anyway, I had expected rowdy South-Siders, but really they’re the same middle-class, suburban folks you see at every gentrified park around the country.

Jake Westbrook pitched a fabulous game, building up a 10-2 lead by the end of the 8th inning. In typical fashion, the Indians coach replaced him with a closer in the 9th. Jason Davis gave up three runs without getting an out. Three more batters touched home before the next two relievers (Betancourt and Wickman) recorded the necessary three outs. To their credit, the drunkards fans who stayed into the 9th (most of the faithless drunkards fans left by the 8th) cheered their hearts out. I almost had a stroke, but the White Sox eventually lost.

Tomorrow we’re going to see more museums and a Cubs game. Details to follow.

And to all of the Polish-American women out there who may read this: Just say no to the peroxide bleach jobs.