If you are searching for America, you could do worse than look for it at a minor league baseball game. I was at one by myself years ago, eavesdropping on ten or so thirty-somethings who came to the game from work. They seemed like tech people and sharp. At one point, one of the young women needed to jot something down but couldn’t find anything to write with. She turned around and said to her workmate behind her: “Is that a pencil in your pocket?” I perked up — she had presented him with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Would he fumble it? “No, I’m just happy to see you,” he said. Nailed it! Bravo!
On a solo baseball trip to Detroit about ten years ago, I made stops for ballgames in Altoona, Pittsburgh, and Cleveland, before finishing up with a Tiger game with Sam. The team in Altoona is the Curve, named after a famous curve in the railroad tracks near town. Their mascot, needless to say, is a big fish: Al Tuna. I grabbed a pregame dinner and beer at a bar and grill in the middle of a run-down neighborhood that promised me (online) a good sandwich. I was the only diner. The beer-tender made friendly conversation, and the sandwich was indeed good.
The previous night’s game was a rainout, so they were playing two on my night, and I arrived around the third inning of the opener. The crowd was sparse and I settled in on the first-base side. A foul ball landed in the row in front of me! How great is that! There was no one nearby, I could snare it calmly. But suddenly I spied another fan streaking towards me at breakneck speed. So I did have to hurry, but I snatched it in time. The games were great. It was a terrific baseball night and I slept okay in my dumpy Motel 6 room.
Altoona has come up again because they are hosting their fifth annual Awful Night, where all the cliches of minor league ball are subverted. For example, the “give-away” item is a spork, you know, a combination spoon and fork. In this case, it’s a plastic spoon duct-taped atop a plastic fork, with “Curve” written across the handle with a thick black marker. Each fan receives one upon entering. A collectible for sure. Instead of t-shirts fired into the crowd, underpants are. When the lineups are announced, all the names are mispronounced.
After the lineups are announced, “Captain Awful” (groundskeeper Matt Neri) runs onto the field to deliver an awful first pitch. Wearing a black mask and cape, and with his chest hair shaved into a letter “A,” Captain Awful fires a pitch into the screen behind home plate and quickly runs back into the stands. For part of the game, a young “valley girl” takes over P.A. duties. Her player introductions are along the lines of “It’s totally Jason Bowers” and “Vic Butler? For sure!”
The announcement of fans celebrating birthdays includes “former president Andrew Johnson.” (It was actually the anniversary of his death, however.) The injury report focuses solely on front office personnel and various ailments they complain about. Instead of a “kiss cam” between innings, there is an “alone cam,” focusing on solitary fans sitting in the stands. There is also a “fan cam” in which various fans are featured: ceiling fans, oscillating fans, portable fans, etc.
Instead of the “Guess the Attendance” Quiz, there is “Guess How Many Fingers I’m Holding Up Behind My Back.” The contestant failed to guess correctly even though the answer was posted on the scoreboard the whole time and the fans were all screaming it.
After the game the fans stayed behind for a Laaser show. That’s not a typo: The lights go dim, and the dramatic strains of “The Final Countdown” fill the stadium. With the tension mounting, front-office employee Jon Laaser appears on the field. Glow sticks are attached to his body. Laaser then entrances the crowd with his slinky, seductive dance moves, until the music is mercifully cut off, and the lights go back on. Awful Night V has finally concluded.
Stick a spork in it. It’s done.
This is one of the July Poetry Winners in The Writer’s Almanac.
I never had much luck with that line when I was single: Are you fertile?
Breaking news: Trump pardoned Ghislaine Maxwell today and appointed her to a seat on the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. Senators Collins and Murkowski voted against confirmation after making sure it wouldn’t matter.
Roger Allen, of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) writes: Split my thumb nail recently, got catchy.. Had to trim and file further back than normal…Sat at work now trying to peel 2 oranges with the ‘wrong hand’ thumb nail…..It’s not happening.
Lesley Bates: Could anyone else peel them for you? Although obviously too late now. Lesson learnt, no oranges until said nail grows back.
Avi Liveson: Why is it too late? The oranges may still be unpeeled.
Roger Collier: I had a thumbnail that kept splitting in the same place. I tried everything: superglue, Araldite etc. but nothing worked. Then I hit it with a hammer; it turned black and fell off. Now it’s grown back perfectly. I don’t recommend this treatment.
Roger Allen: In engineering parlance that’s call ‘root cause corrective action’… (pun intended)….
Avi Liveson: Once you split the nail on a finger you will bump it into something painfully with every action you take the rest of the day even if those actions have nothing to do with that finger. You can move your foot and still wind up bumping that finger. My wife told me to trim that nail as short as possible and I did. A bit later the rest of my nails needed trimming, but not that one, since I had trimmed it fairly recently. But a few days later, I needed to trim that one but not the others.
The puzzle today contained four cookies: four DOUBLE STUFF OREOS. Do you see them in the grid, below?
There are four double letters (SS, TT, UU, FF) sandwiched between two pairs of black squares representing the cakey parts of the cookie. The double letters represent the creme, of course. (E.g., look at the squares between 3A and 4A.)
If the thought of an OREO moves you to crave dunking one in milk, the constructors provided some for you at 28A: MILK, clued with “Beverage served alongside the treats in this puzzle.”
Dave Parker, baseball great, lived long enough to know he got into the Hall of Fame but died before the induction ceremony. He wrote a poem which his son, Dave Parker II, read at the ceremony. Here’s the last part of it:
That statue better look good —
you know I got a pretty face.
Top-tier athlete,
fashion icon,
sex symbol.
No reason to list the rest of my credentials.
I’m him, period.
The Cobra.
Known for my rocket arm,
and I will run any catcher over.
To my friends, families: I love y’all.
Thanks for staying by my side.
I told y’all Cooperstown would be my last ride.
See you tomorrow. Thanks for popping in!
The Wellington Files 