Whoever wants to know the heart and mind of America had better learn baseball, the rules and realities of the game…--Jacques Barzun
I already loved baseball going into this trip. I would think that that’s somewhat obvious but then I remember that a lot of people do certain things that would lead you or me to believe certain things about them that really just turn out to be contrived. For instance, a person might say that they like carrots when they don’t really like carrots. A person might say that their job is fulfilling when their job really isn’t fulfilling. A person might buy expensive tickets to a baseball game to show that they like a trendy team when they don’t really like baseball. I visited double digit baseball stadiums because I love baseball when I really mean I love baseball.
Yet, something changed on this trip. I think that over the course of this trip I solidified my love for the
game. I had been able to separate my love for the game from my love of the Yankees for some time, but I still found it hard to watch a game in its own context without worrying about how the outcome would affect the standings and therefore affect the Yankees, or how this or that player’s performance might affect the trade of free agent market and therefore affect the Yankees. During this trip, I was able to shed myself of that burden. It was going to the stadiums and sitting in the stands of other teams, and sitting, watching, eating next to and visiting the hometowns of the fans of teams that weren’t my own. I can’t pinpoint when exactly it happened the first time, but I found myself sincerely rooting for the home team to win, rooting for the home fans to go home happy. Which teams were playing didn’t matter; the home team was the good guys, so I rooted for them, just like that seventh inning song says.
Watching a baseball game in its own context lets you appreciate the ease with which the players play, the way the wind blows the ball, and the way the sounds of the game carry in the stadium. There’s so much more going on than winning and losing. I knew that going into this trip, but I had never truly experienced it until somewhere along the way on this odyssey.
It’s taken me a long time to get this out. The truth is that it always takes me a long time to finish journals. This one has, admittedly, taken longer than usual. The reason is that I’m not crazy about it for some reason. I can’t explain it. It’s not bad, I don’t think, it’s just not terrific. I present it largely unedited, so please forgive me for typos and disconnected thoughts and bad transitions and whatnot.
Monday, June 95:35 amBack seat of Volvo, NJ TurnpikeIt’s generally a good sign – generally – when the first thing I think to myself when I wake up before doing something like this is “I need to get my head examined.” But, you know, we’ll see.-- Janeczko, 4:40 this morningAnd with those inspiring words from our fearless leader did our merry band of road warriors kick off this odyssey. A quick introduction for those who are in need: last Thanksgiving, after a bit too much tryptophan, Janeczko was sitting around watching football, and he found himself depressed that he wasn’t watching baseball. The realization that it was still many cold months until baseball season began soured his mind for days. Not too long thereafter, he half-jokingly, half-pleadingly left me a message on my computer:
How long until baseball starts? Little did he know that at around the same time I had been having similar thoughts and had calculated the number of days until spring training and opening day, a figure that I shared with him. Partly excited and partly depressed because it was a rather large number, he hatched this hare-brained, ridiculous idea for a road trip that would never work, a trip revolving around baseball stadiums and depending on a ton of luck for scheduling to fall our way. Needless to say I jumped on board immediately and we began waiting for the 2008 schedules to come out. When they did, the baseball gods had provided for us home games on consecutive days for the following teams: Pittsburgh Pirates, Cleveland Indians, Detroit Tigers, Milwaukee Brewers, Chicago Cubs, Chicago White Sox, St. Louis Cardinals, Cincinnati Reds, Philadelphia Phillies, and New York Yankees. Those teams and cities form a perfect road trip-shaped path that we will be taking over the next week and a half. Two notes: there is an off day between St. Louis and Cincinnati, which we will spend either at a minor league game somewhere in between or at the Louisville Slugger museum, or both, if we can swing it (har har!); also, the Yankees game to end the trip is up in the air. Also note the confidence with which I suggest so boldly that we will even make it to that late point in the trip to make those decisions. After all, why wouldn’t 4 recent college graduates and a 1997 Volvo with 126,000 be able to make a simple 11 day trip around the near Midwest, if such a region even exists? Nothing could possibly go wrong…right?
Yes, there are four of us. In the first of what I hope are many, many obvious and painfully cliché baseball and/or sports references, I give you our starting lineup: (Matt) Janeczko, the ringleader, whose parents so graciously hosted us in their lovely New Jersey home last night; Joe, Janeczko’s very recently former roommate, whose familial connections we will be exploiting in St. Louis, will fix any car problems, build any fires, or generally save us in any mechanical disaster; Megan, who for some as of yet unexplained reason innocently trusts our ability to get her home safe and sound, will use her southern charm to try to get us out of any traffic tickets; and me. I don’t really inherently contribute anything, but I bought a book on baseball road trips, so that’s something.
The plan for today is to make it to Pittsburgh from Wood Ridge, New Jersey for the 12:35 game. The early game time is why we began the 5 or so hour drive so early this morning. Pittsburgh, we hear, will be waiting for us with potentially record temperatures, 92 being an oft-quoted number, so we’re all looking forward to that. (Let me take a moment to mention that the Volvo has a black leather interior.) Pittsburgh’s stadium, PNC Park, is only 7 years old and is generally reported as being one of if not the very nicest stadium in the majors. PNC Park is also generally very empty with some of the lowest attendance figures in all of baseball. Pair that with the weather and the fact that the game is in the middle of the day on a Monday, and you can see why we don’t foresee any problems having our pick of tickets. (Side note: the only game for which we already have tickets is the Cubs game, because we insisted that we sit in the famed bleachers at Wrigley Field, and tickets for those are sometimes hard to come by just before the game, and we don’t want to take our chances. We’re going to take our chances everywhere else.) After the game, after enjoying whatever there is to enjoy in Pittsburgh, we head to Cleveland, where we’re going to spend the night at Megan’s cousin’s place. Somewhere along the way to Cleveland is when I will update, I suspect.
Monday, June 095:00 pmBack of the Volvo, I-76, OhioUnfortunately, since we have dinner plans in a Cleveland suburb tonight, we had to bolt Pittsburgh right after the game. After a near crisis involving a gas tank containing little more than fumes and the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which evidently only has exits every 20 to 350 miles, not to mention nary a shoulder onto which gasless cars can hopelessly coast in a last ditch effort to find salvation, we are on our way to Lakewood, Ohio where we have been promised large beers and notable grilled cheese.
We all agree that Pittsburgh’s PNC Park was gorgeous. Nearly anywhere in the park offers great views of the river and of the Pittsburgh skyline, which is surprisingly attractive and has a startlingly large number of yellow bridges. The structure of the park pays homage to the industry that built the town, with exposed steel beams all over the place. Very picturesque park. Now on to equally important parts.
The sandwiches we got, from Primanti Brothers, are apparently somewhat of a Pittsburgh staple. They were pretty standard sandwich filling – steak and cheese, ham and cheese, and something else – on big pieces of white bread, served with French fries and cole slaw, which were in the sandwich itself. We were all underwhelmed by the sandwiches, which were a bit dry.
We were not underwhelmed by the scoreboard and all of the shenanigans that look place on it. It’s only fair to declare from the beginning that I am not a fan of scoreboard shenanigans in general. I wish that between innings I could just relax or talk to the person next to me without having absurdly loud music being blasted at me or being forced to hear equally loud, dumb people try to answer trivia questions to win a gift card. I strongly dislike all of the on-screen personalities, because they are overly enthusiastic and they’re always yelling like they’re selling something on an infomercial. I don’t want to find the hidden baseball on the scoreboard, I don’t need cartoons telling me whom to root for.
At the beginning of today’s game there was a several minute long cartoon of pirate ships (because they’re the Pirates, get it?) blowing up some other ships with the visiting Diamondbacks’ logo on them, with missiles, lasers, cluster bombs, cannons, and some sort of octopus torpedo which with its tentacles eventually sunk the ship. It had absolutely nothing to do with baseball There were equally annoying displays between innings that I will not get into because we just entered Cleveland and have begun the hunt for our lodging and grilled cheese sandwiches. More later, perhaps.
Thursday, June 128:56 am Papa san chair, Chicago, blocks from Wrigley FieldThe past few days feel like a whirlwind. After I closed the laptop last time, we found our destination in the quaint little town of Lakewood, Ohio. We found nourishment in a bar called The Melt that specializes in creative grilled cheese sandwiches, which were excellent. That was the long and short of Monday night.
There was a consensus on Tuesday to get to Cleveland well ahead of game time to give us time to walk around a little and explore. We left the house at about 1:30; game time was 7:05. Since we were so cautious with the time, Fate naturally had to step in and try to mess with us. On the way to the RTA (Rapid Transit Authority – the Cleveland area’s mass transit system and best example that, and in no way am I trying to demean middle America, “rapid” and “mass” are very relative terms), our hostess’ car started making a suspicious sound that we had to check out pulled over on the side of the road. This is on a 7 minute drive on neighborhood streets, mind you, not some high speed highway extravaganza. While two of us stood on the curb expertly lending our expert ears to the situation (“Do you hear that?” “Yep, do you?” “Yep, we sure got ourselves a little noise there.” “That is definitely a noise.”), a third of us, who is actually somewhat mechanically inclined, was doing a military-style crawl after the car, like he was taking cover from jungle natives spewing blow darts, trying to look at the brake pad to determine the problem, with the car rolling away from him all the while. The last and fairest of us who was not the hostess and driver was contributing with expert looks of concern from the back seat. Then it began to rain. The three problem solvers who were outside the car quickly decided nothing was to be done and that we should just keep driving and see what happens. We did, and nothing happened, except that it began to rain harder. By the time we reached the MPTA (Moderately Paced Transit Authority) we were facing a downpour. Walking quickly but not running in to the station, as to not give Fate any satisfaction because dammit we had left ourselves so much time that neither a little car noise nor a little rain was going to dampen (har) our spirits or plans, we all secretly were wondering what in the world there was to do in downtown Cleveland if the game got rained out.
After overcoming our next roadblock, which to put simply was the inability for 5 recent graduates of fine institutions of higher learning (including two current and one former federal employees) to find their way out of a shopping mall, we stumbled upon the outside and the stadium that we would be visiting that night, the former Jacobs Field, or as it is fondly known, The Jake. (This year, Indians ownership for the first time has given in the temptation to corporate sponsorship, much to the dismay of the locals – at least those who are willing to admit that it happened – so out of respect for them I will not mention the field’s actual current name. No one calls it that anyway.) By this time the rain had not stopped but had let up some, which encouraged us to slosh over to the box office and buy our tickets, then walk around Cleveland. We procured $9 upper third base side seats and headed towards the lake (Erie, for the geographically challenged). Some of us went to go look at the lake and some of us went inside the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame gift shop to escape the rain, which had yet again picked up. We then headed to the Warehouse District, which is not as scary as it sounds. I suggested we go to a bar called Panini’s (possessive, yes, as if a sandwich owns the place) even though it is a chain because from what I had read it is sort of a Cleveland mainstay. We asked the bartender, who at first seemed a little annoyed that we had dared to come into her bar demanding food and drink, but then warmed up to us when she heard we were from out of town for a baseball game, what we should get and she said “Uh, a panini.” Fair enough, we said. What we got was similar in appearance to the Texas toast sandwiches that we had gotten at PNC Park. Confused though as we were, because we out of towners all understand paninis to be flat, grilled sandwiches that restaurants like to pretend are healthier than other, not-squished sandwiches, we all agreed that these meat, cole slaw, and French fry creations were what the ones that PNC were meant to have been, so we were satisfied to have finally correctly experienced that type of sandwich, mislabeled as it is. One of us got wings and the local, our hostess, got a wrap. Whatever.
After our snack we headed back out (in the sunshine!) to The Jake, where it was nearly time to be let in to watch what would have been batting practice, but batting practice had been rained out, so we watched some millionaires play catch in the outfield instead. A quick side note: I played baseball growing up. I play softball now. I’ve played catch a thousand and one times. I’ve been known to walk down the street tossing a ball to myself, or when I’m sitting in the living room. I have spent hours among countless hours of my life throwing a ball around. I think I’m pretty good. These maniacs we watched play catch, guys whose main job is to keep the bench from floating away during games, were as if they were from another planet. They would yawn and turn and make a throw that I can only hope to make 3 or 4 times in one afternoon without my shoulder turning inside out. Only they were doing it 40 or 50 times without even thinking about it. On top of that, the guy catching the ball never had to move. When I play catch, one of us is often diving this way or that way to catch what should be a routine throw. We convince ourselves and our egos that this is because we’re just challenging our partner to tough throws, giving them a chance to show off their fielding skills (which are just as often on par with our throwing). But we know deep down this is not what’s really going on. Those maniacs on the field are the real deal.
After catch was over, we walked to a small park called Heritage Park beyond the outfield that was a little hall of fame commemorating famous Indians players with plaques and fancy bricks and so on. The reverence with which these players of this game are celebrated, at the Jake and at every other stadium I’ve visited, is fascinating. People mill around and read inscriptions with interest and intent that rivals the interest and intent one sees at the World War II memorial in DC. I’m not suggesting that this is bad of them. Perhaps they’re the same people, a brand of tourist who read things intently. It could easily be argued that there isn’t enough intent reading going on in this country today, be it plaques, memorials, newspapers, pork barrel legislation, or otherwise. But the cynic in me refuses to stand silent and wonders if there is as much reverence of those who are the real “heroes”, whatever that really means. I am anti-heroification and am often disgusted at the media or whoever else makes heroes or martyrs out of people just to sell a paper or squeeze a donation. But there must be people who expend all sorts of cranial energy on things like baseball and not on things like presidential elections, or even local referendums. I guess the larger question is that if that’s true, is there anything wrong with that? The only thing I’m sure of is that I am not the one to decide, at least not alone.
I guess I’ll have to get to the actual game later. Time to head to Wrigley. The gates open soon and we’re shooting for prime seats in the general admission bleachers. Back later to hopefully wrap up a little more and bring this journal thing up to the present.
Friday, June 132:55 pmBack of Volvo, I-94, towards MilwaukeeIt seems as though the more I put off to do until later, the harder it is to catch up on this journal (a problem similar to the one that plagued my academic years – yes, Mom, I hear you). We have about an hour and a half until we get to Milwaukee, so hopefully I’ll be able to bang out the past couple days.
I guess I’ll catch up in order and finish the story of Cleveland. After Heritage Park, we found our seats, high above the third base line. It was Dollar Dog Night, so the first order of business was to grab some nourishment. We settled in and watched the game. The rain by this time had subsided completely and the weather for the game was impeccable. I was made very happy when during the national anthem I cringed, as I usually do during the part where people from the Baltimore-Washington metro area yell “OH!”, only to not hear the yell that bothers me so much. The dogs were in reality alright but since they were only a dollar they were deemed good for convenience’s sake. A seventh inning custard run proved delicious. The stadium wasn’t very full but there was enough of a crowd to hear all the ooohs and aaawws you expect and want to hear at a game. The home team’s pitcher threw a complete game shutout, which, for those of you who don’t know, is an impressive feat. It also made for a very quick game, lasting only just over two hours. After bidding adieu to The Jake, we headed back to the house with our eyes set on Detroit the next day.
We left for Detroit after lunch on Wednesday. Our plan for the Detroit leg was to keep it brief, as we had read that Comerica Park is in an unsavory part of town. Based on what I’ve heard, I’m not sure there is a savory part of Detroit. We sure didn’t see one, and we drove through a small chunk of town on a detour on the way to the park. The guy at the box office was unable to give us 4 tickets together in any sort of cheap section, so we had to take our chances with getting separate tickets and finding a chunk of empty seats.
***Note: At this point, we stopped at a Brat Stop on the way to Milwaukee. I had two brats, a German potato salad, and a beer. I was in no physical state when I got back in the car to continue typing, as my body was using all of its energy and apparently brain power on digesting yet another on a long string of meals of cased meat. Not to mention we were not too far from Milwaukee, it was cramped in the back seat, etc. So much for catching up.
Sunday, June 156:38 amBack of the Volvo, I-55 South, on the way to St. Louis from ChicagoSo, back to Detroit in journal form. After getting tickets, Joe and Janeczko went into the stadium, while Megan and I investigated a restaurant called “Hockeytown” across the street. “Hockeytown” is Detroit’s nickname in the sports world, and their hockey team had just won the Stanley Cup, but it still felt a little funny going to Hockeytown right before our baseball game.
I’d like to take a quick second to address what’s happening outside my window, which is very little. The extent of my Middle America experience has come largely on this trip, and it just keeps getting more interesting, and I say that with surprisingly little sarcasm. With the miles and miles of flat, seemingly empty farmland, it’s somewhat understandable how the millions of Americans who live in these Midwestern cities are focused more on domestic and local issues than on foreign policy. Of course, this over-generalization comes not from where it should, which is talking to the people here, but instead the crux of presidential candidates’ stump speeches, which I’d like to be able to assume are a credible source, but I’m afraid that on their best day are only vague reaches. Nevertheless, they’re all I have to go on. Someday I’ll have to come back with more time and talk to people.
Walking into Comerica Park is a nearly zoological experience, as the stadium designers really embraced the Tigers theme: there are big tiger statues on top of the stadium, a couple gigantic tiger statues playing in front of the main entrance, there are tiger gargoyles eating baseballs all along the exterior, and there are two big tigers on top of the scoreboard whose eyes light up when a Tigers player hits a home run. Comerica is also one of the fan- and family-friendliest parks in baseball: without even going to your seats you can eat at any number of sit down restaurants, play in a fountain, ride on a baseball Ferris wheel, ride on a merry-go-round (on a tiger, of course), walk around and look at countless displays commemorating old great Tigers players, and, on the night we went, get a haircut on the center field concourse. I was in desperate need of a haircut anyway, and I figured that I would have few chances to get my hair cut in center field of a major league stadium, so I did it. My $5 allegedly went to kids with cancer, or some similarly worthy cause, so that’s good. Janeczko also could not pass up the opportunity.
The game was a success, with the home pitcher once again (and for the second night in a row for us) throwing a complete game and winning. The home teams we had seen were now 3-0. I had read good things about the hand-rolled pretzels from a particular stand so I tried a brown sugar and cinnamon pretzel, and it did not disappoint. After we lost and found the car again we drove out of Detroit as quickly as we could, which was not very quickly at all because several thousand other people apparently and understandably had similar sentiments about Detroit and were also trying to leave as quickly as possible, so we all sat in a little bottleneck trying to get onto the highway, doors firmly locked. Numerous nervous jokes and laugher got us through the waiting, and we eventually got on the road and headed towards Chicago.
On the way to Chicago, I drove and Megan sat in the front seat, keeping me alert. When the opportunity arose, I would make the requisite joke that we must have made a wrong turn since we just saw a sign saying that we were headed for Oakland, or Arlington, or Washington, or Rochester, or whatever other small local town had the same name as a more familiar, far away counterpart. After awhile, though, this joke became a bit ridiculous because of all the shared names. There was even a New Buffalo. Who wanted to recreate Buffalo? With all the absurd place names that people have come up with, why are we repeating names?
We got to Chicago in the wee hours, found parking with some difficulty (a theme that would only become the monstrous bane of Janeczko’s existence by the end of our short stay), and went to sleep. The Cubs game on Thursday was of course a day game. For those who don’t know, Wrigley Field was the last of the old stadiums to install lights and play at all after dark. They maintain a tradition of playing their games during the day, even during the week, while the rest of baseball usually plays their week games at night to help television ratings. Hence, a day game at Wrigley is simultaneously a unique and a traditional experience. Part of the quintessential Wrigley experience is sitting in the outfield bleachers, which we were fortunate enough to do.
The bleachers are general admission. We figured that to get good seats for this weekday game against the formidable Braves, a good game but by no means as exciting as a game against the cross-town rival White Sox or traditional rival Cardinals, we should get there when the gates opened, 2 hours before the first pitch. We strolled up to the stadium 20 minutes before gates opened, foolishly confident, only to find that there were already two lines, one to each bleacher entrance, snaking around the block. We trudged to the back of one of the lines, expletives trailing behind us. While in line, the question arose that I am sure must come to the minds of any out of towner who is visiting Wrigley: what are all these people doing at a baseball game in the middle of the day on a Thursday? Some were college students, so that’s one explanation. Some were retirees, so that makes sense. However, a lot of them were neither. Do they all have jobs that require them to work one day on the weekend so they have one day off during the week? Are they all playing hooky? What’s going on here?
Walking into Wrigley is like walking through a time warp. The ramps to get to the upper level where the access to the bleachers is are small and windy, not wide and sloping like in modern parks. There is concrete everywhere. There’s no room, at least out where the bleachers are (the only place in the park that those with bleacher tickets are allowed) built into the concourse for vendors; all food stands were on wheels propped up along the walkway. Before you can even see the field, you know this is different.
After all the worrying over the long line, we managed to sit in the third row of the left field bleachers, which was pretty promising considering we were in time for batting practice and were hankering to catch a ball. Alas, despite the baseball gods’ best efforts to deliver us a ball, we came away with no ball. (the first opportunity was while Megan was away from her seat. A batted ball was headed for the people directly in front of us. One of them went for it but missed, and the ball bounced to Megan’s empty seat, where a guy in front of it, a girl behind it, and I all grabbed for it. The guy got it. During batting practice, the outfielders who are shagging the batted balls sometimes toss the balls up into the stands. A little while after the batted ball came by, Megan was back at her seat, disappointed that she had missed the chance. One of the Atlanta outfielders apparently felt her pain and tossed a ball right to her, after making eye contact and everything. Poor Megan, not expecting this specific attention, was not prepared to, when the ball came, make the quick decision between her beer, which was in hand, and the ball, which was fast approaching. Confused, or perhaps greedily, she tried to both maintain beer and snatch ball, which left her with a partially spilled beer and no ball. Lesson learned.)
We just crossed the Mississippi into St. Louis.
10:51 am, same day.I am sitting quite literally in the shadow of the St. Louis Arch. My fellow road warriors slipped into mass at the old cathedral here on the river bank, so I have a bit of time to continue. Right after they finish we will head into the stadium, which is just a couple blocks away. The arch is quite shiny.
After the unsuccessful but very enjoyable batting practice at Wrigley, the game began. It began without any theme songs or outrageous cartoons or flaming team logos blasting from the scoreboard because the scoreboard at Wrigley merely (you won’t believe this) keeps score. It is a green square that shows the score of the game, the name of the player who is batting, a couple statistics for them, the pitch and out count, and the scores of other games going on that day. That’s it. The portion showing the batter and his statistics is the only part that’s on an electronic scoreboard. The scores of the other games are manually changed by men who spend the game inside the scoreboard moving around big green squares with numbers on them. The pitch and out counter are the type of display that you can still see at some train stations; I don’t even know what it’s called. The best I can describe it is that the numbers look like white bulbs amongst a sea of green bulbs. The numbers make the best
shhhook! sound when they change. Whoever was operating the board while we there could not have been more on top of the pitch count, sometimes, it seemed, changing the count before the umpire had even signaled. Since the scoreboard was behind us in the bleachers, my eyes were not on it most of the game, but I delighted in hearing the noise after nearly every pitch. I could hear it because the PA announcer was present but unobtrusive in his calling each player to the plate. There was no music playing as the players walked up to the plate, no trivia contests between innings, no blooper reels, no music at all other than the simple organ that was trying so desperately to take us back in time. The crowd reacted when we wanted, not in response to big “CLAP CLAP” signs or “MAKE SOME NNOOIIISSE!” prompts from an oversized screen. That is what baseball is supposed to be. Because of that afternoon I truly feel like I understand what baseball was like in the 20s or 40s or even 60s. If that’s how baseball used to be, it is of no wonder to me how baseball became our national pastime. I do wonder, however, what will happen when Wrigley changes its ways.
To add to the time warp, the game we went to was on a throwback day, so both teams were wearing uniforms from 1948. That was pretty cool. Not nearly enough players these days play with their stirrups up.
I was just called; mass is over. Time for Busch Stadium.
Monday, June 166:40 pmBack of the Volvo, en route from St. Louis to Louisville…lots of Louis happening here.When I left you last, I was sitting in front of the Arch. Now, I have just come from inside the Arch. To go up the Arch, you have to pay ten dollars, then walk past a large bear that apparently symbolizes westward expansion as I am pretty sure that bears are not indigenous to St. Louis but what do I know, then walk through a corny exhibit on westward expansion, which was apparently badly lit and full of crates and barrels and ropes, and then you check your claustrophobia at the little door of a little pod built for 3 but with seating for 5 and a small window through which you can see the cables your little pod is riding on that you hope you will not watch suddenly snap and leave you in freefall as you climb the Arch, occasionally swaying back and forth like a Ferris wheel car, accompanied by the soothing voice coming out of a little speaker reassuring you of your safety in this structure that was of modern structural integrity in the 1960s. For the comparison benefit for a limited portion of those who might be reading this, it reminded me a little of Air Afrique, only not as bad. Once at the top you can look out a bunch of little windows and compare what you see with what the area looked like in 1960-something, the year the Arch was built, which is represented with aerial photograph displays above the windows. Apparently you can feel the Arch sway in a strong wind, but unfortunately I did not feel the sway. Because of the funny twist the Arch takes, the windows are angled so that you can see almost straight down to the ground if you lean over far enough, which is a neat view. To the west you can see the baseball stadium, some courthouses, some hotels, and some general urban sprawl. To the east you can see the Mississippi River, which from that height appears to be made of pure mud, and miles and miles and miles of not very much at all. After a few minutes of looking out windows, we crawled back into our little pod and left.
Before the Arch we had gone to eat at an Italian place in the Italian section of town called The Hill, which is named for its gently rolling streets that could barely sustain the runaway roll of a wayward baseball, and as such is probably the steepest grade of any natural landscape in the tri-county area. We stopped by here because we out of towners wanted to experience the St. Louis specialty of toasted ravioli. It tastes what it sounds like, and it was good. A pizza that was also ordered was messed up by the waitress, so she awarded us with free dessert. Partaking in free dessert did not deter us from immediately heading to our next scheduled experience, which was another St. Louis specialty, gooey butter cake, a name that I am not making up. I didn’t know such a thing existed until last night when I was talking to some natives about St. Louis things I had to try before I left. Apparently, gooey butter cake came about like so many other wonderful things we take for granted, which is that it was an accident. The story goes that someone got the proportions of a cake recipe wrong and out came gooey butter cake, which, like the toasted ravioli, is just what it sounds like. Needless to say, you can have neither too much butter nor too much goo in a cake, so it was a good experience.
Amidst our ravioli and gooey cake we reflected on the dietary punishment we have been inflicting upon our bodies on this trip. At Joe’s parents’ we were fortunate enough to be offered fresh fruit and vegetables for the first time in what feels like weeks. Those healthy things were hidden among pulled pork, cheese and potatoes, cole slaw, baked beans, cake, donuts, and bagels, but they were there nonetheless. Where they were not was in the countless hot dogs, sausages, bratwursts, pizzas, bottoms of glasses of various fermented beverages, raviolis, and misnamed sandwiches. One of my goals whenever I travel is to try the local specialties; very, very few times in all of my travels have I found a local specialty that is healthy, particularly in these United States. Every local specialty in this country is either fried, meat, full of cheese or cream, or some combination of the above. Somewhere out there there must be a town whose favorite dish is a fresh fruit salad or a roasted turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread or a tofu and fresh vegetable stir fry with long grain brown rice, but I have yet to come across it.
Wednesday, June 181:17 pmBack of the Volvo, I-70 East, heading from Cincinnati to Altoona, PAAltoona, PA?! That wasn’t on the itinerary! We discovered while in St. Louis that the Red Sox-Phillies game that we were supposed to go to tonight is sold out. The four of us had already made a trip to Philly for a baseball game earlier this season, so we decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of dealing with a scalper or buying secondhand online. We scoped out minor league teams in the area and it just so happens that the Altoona Curve are hosting a doubleheader this evening, and we couldn’t resist.
“We” now consists of Janeczko, Megan, and myself. We lost Joe this morning to something at work that required him back at the office today. Fortunately the remaining “we” are two federal employees and an out of work youth minister, so we don’t have such silly work-related problems. Nothing will stand in the way of Altoona! I have actually been to Altoona before and if I recall correctly it is little more than a bowling alley and a bunch of railroad track that may or may not have been significant during World War II. It’s half price burger night at the games, which is exactly what we do not need, but, you know, when in Rome.
“This is finally beginning to feel like a road trip,” Janeczko said this morning, much more enthused than was appropriate for the hour. He was referring to the fact that we have generally given up trying to keep the car respectable; it is dirty and full of junk. Wires, maps, books, water bottles, and miniature baseball bats are strewn about. The trunk is a joke and until this morning was the home to forgotten, fermenting fruit. I can’t speak for the others, but I know that I, personally, have smelled better than I do right now. We did laundry when we were in Chicago but somehow, perhaps miraculously, perhaps regrettably, probably depending on your current proximity to me, the only clean thing I’m wearing is socks.
Last night we watched the hapless Cincinnati Reds get duped out of a win by the Los Angeles Dodgers. The Cincinnati ballpark is called Great American Ballpark, a name that fooled me and Janeczko into thinking that the powers that be had simply chosen to give a strong, patriotic name to the house of our strong, patriotic sport. It turns out that Great American is indeed a company that bought the naming rights. The park itself is very attractive. It turns out that I’m partial to stadiums on bodies of water; Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, and Washington are all on riverfronts. Great American was not very full, so we got to sneak down to seats that were much more expensive than the $7 we spent that was supposed to get us into second level bleachers in left field. From there it was much easier to see the Reds’ ineptitude, as well as the nice skyline view of Cincinnati through the outfield stands. The weather was great, too.
Much better than it was in St. Louis, that’s for sure. St. Louis was the only occasion other than Wrigley that required us to have tickets ahead of time. The tickets that we ended up with for St. Louis’ Busch Stadium were in the left center field bleachers, about 15 rows up, in seats specially located and designed to attract as much blistering sun as possible. Megan and I lasted about an inning of the roasting before moving to a shadier locale, a locale from which we were subsequently bounced a couple innings later by its rightful owner, who had been bounced from his own seat self-upgrade misadventure, or at least so we assumed. We ended up in pretty good seats along the first base line from which we could clearly see the Phillies blow it in the bottom of the tenth and give the game away to the Cardinals on an error (two, actually). This was a couple days after we saw the Cubs beat the Braves in the bottom of the tenth on a bases loaded hit by pitch. Funny game, this baseball.
After the game, we proceeded to Joe’s parents’ house in the St. Louis suburbs, where we were greeted with a family reunion/Father’s Day/graduation party barbeque. The food, which was the first home cooked meal we had had since Jersey, was delicious, the company was delightful, the weather had calmed, and the cornhole was competitive. As if you have to be told, cornhole is a game whereby two people (or teams) try to throw a one pound bean bag (in our case, with a homemade cornhole set, it was two sets of three freezer bags filled with pinto beans and taped up) into a hole (the cornhole, I presume) in a small wooden ramp, with each ramp being precisely, and for unexplained reasons, 24 feet apart. The bean bag is tossed underhand from one ramp to another. Needless to say, there is much strategy involved in the tossing and the knocking of others’ bags off the ramp and the bouncing off the ground, etc.
Friday, June 2012:30Sixth row of Chinatown bus, sitting in traffic on 95 South, going from Philly to DCNo ending transition to that last post, sorry. We either stopped for gas or I got involved in a discussion or something else happened that kept me from finishing. In any case, Megan and I are on a Chinatown bus bound for home. It’s somewhat fitting that we’re stuck in traffic, something we hadn’t endured much of on our trip; we must be back on the east coast.
The morning after barbeque and cornhole we went into St. Louis for toasted ravioli, gooey butter cake, and the Arch, then we hit the road for Kentucky. (Forgive me if I’m repeating myself here) Kentucky was our only scheduled day off on the whole trip, and by day off of course I mean there was no baseball to be had. All was not lost however because Louisville is the home to the Louisville Slugger Factory and Museum, origin of the classic and standard wooden baseball bats used by countless baseball players; an obvious stop on this baseball-themed odyssey.
We rolled into Louisville late that night, looking for the beacon of hope that is a Holiday Inn Express sign, only to find it accompanied by a message board that was welcoming the US Department of Labor. The guy at the front desk confirmed that they were more or less full, and warned us that we may have trouble finding a room in town at a reasonable rate, on account of the Baptist convention and all (presumably unrelated to the Department of Labor being in town). We ended up having to go a few miles outside of Louisville to get a room, a slight inconvenience that ended up being a blessing in disguise. The next day we permanently borrowed a local restaurant guide from the hotel, and with it found Big Momma’s Soul Food Kitchen, literally a shack on the side of the road. Big Momma was noted for her Kentucky specialty fried chicken, so being the cultural explorers that we are, we had to try some. I can say without a doubt that that was the best fried chicken I have ever had. It came with white beans and mashed potatoes and cornbread (my choices – Megan, on the other hand, got green beans and macaroni and cheese), which were also delicious. The whole meal was $7, less than we have paid for a single beer at many a ballpark on this trip.
The Slugger Museum was very interesting. The factory tour took us through the various steps of making a bat, from selecting the wood to barreling the billets out of the tree to designing to shaping the handle to branding, and everything else in between. At the end we all got little souvenir bats, which we added to our collection of free junk that we’ve accumulated. I think I’ve neglected to mention along the way some of the promotional nights we’ve hit: we had the dollar hot dogs in Cleveland, haircuts in Detroit, free Brewers hats in Milwaukee, Cardinal mascot Fredbird bobbleheads in St. Louis (technically for kids only, but only naïve fools will try to get between the Megan-Matt duo and free stuff – we got our bobbleheads), Ken Griffey, Jr. memorabilia in Cincinnati, and half price hamburgers in Altoona.
We drove to Altoona the morning after the Cincinnati game. The first game of the doubleheader began at 5:35, so gates were at 4:35. As per our custom for most games of this trip, we were there for the gates opening. We decided to live it up and get the most expensive seats we could: right behind home plate, first section, fourth row, close enough to hear the players talking, close enough to yell at the ump and know he could hear you, almost on the field itself: $11. You have to love minor league games.
The burgers were great, the weather was nice but a bit cool, my brand new Altoona Curve hat was spiffy, the seats and view were unbeatable; the only thing that stunk was the baseball. The Curve are the AA affiliate (a mid-level league in the minors) of the Pittsburgh Pirates (a very bad major league team). I wouldn’t say they were atrocious, but they managed to lose both games after taking leads into the 5th inning (of 7 inning games). Nevertheless, we had a great time and I wouldn’t hesitate to say that I would stop by Altoona again for another Curve game if I happen to be passing by.
