The cleat chaser conundrum -- Part one

A trio of young women—a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette—walk into a AA baseball stadium in a southern city an hour before first pitch (no, this isn’t the opening of a joke). It’s a hot July night, and the girls are dressed for the weather. The redhead is wearing a white sundress and blue wedge heels. The blonde is in white shorts and a pink top with sandals; the brunette is in a green and tan patterned sundress with tan thong sandals. The redhead wears a messy side braid and light eye makeup; the brunette sports a windblown ponytail, lipstick, and mascara. The blonde wears full powder and dramatic eye makeup with red lipstick. Before they make their way to the second row of seats down the right field line by the home bullpen, they stop at the beer stand and grab a couple cans before the game starts.

What are your first thoughts about these women?

Great. Now keep reading.

It’s the same night, same game, alternate reality. The same three women enter the park. This time, however, the redhead wears a loose-fitting Under Armour tank, black compression fit bottoms that hit below the knee, and running shoes. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail; the flyaways are held at bay by an elastic headband. The blonde wears pink Nike running shorts and a fitted tee with colorful trainers, her hair pulled haphazardly into low pigtails. The brunette is in black volleyball shorts, a loose-fitting tank, and running shoes with a high ponytail. None of the girls are wearing makeup. They are still an hour early and their seats are in the same place; they still grab a beer before they sit.

What do you think about them now? 

I know there are only 20 of you, but comment away. I'm going to tell you my thoughts and the rest of this experience tomorrow, but let's see what you've got first. 

Stewart suspended. Thoughts?

So FSU's DJ Stewart was suspended for four games for the brawl versus Florida the other day.

Was this the right move?

Apparently, FSU has a wrestling team now

Who wants to talk about this?

UF, FSU baseball teams get into brawl, Gators upset No. 1 Seminoles

I don't.

Do you know why? I hate bench clearing brawls at the collegiate level. Rather than tell you why, though, I would rather hear your thoughts on it. I'll trade you a comment for a comment. Go.

Don't embarrass me. Comment. Talk to me.

The memory is a fascinating thing

One of the things that’s kind of fun about revisiting a blog that’s essentially been dead for four years is looking at the abandoned drafts that are filled with either incomplete thoughts or just a title. I had four of them. I couldn’t place any of them at first, and the one with only a title was particularly intriguing.

The elusive title: “How ‘Wings’ Let Me Down: A Title With No ‘Love’ In It”

Um, what? What was I doing in April 2010 that involved wings and love? I had no idea for about an hour. Then I looked at the titles of the previous posts, and it did seem there was a lot of love flowing through them. Well, that was one mystery down. What’s up with these wings, though? I can’t connect baseball to wings nor can I connect 2010 to wings. I flew to Pennsylvania that year, but that wasn’t until months later. I don’t think I knew I was going in April.

I moved on after about an hour.

Then it hit me at 4 AM like a lot of great ideas do. I’m grateful I remembered. I’m not grateful that it was no longer so intriguing when I figured out what I was going to write about.

Wings…as in Baumhower’s Wings! If you’ve been around the state of Alabama, and you are a sports or chicken wings fan, you’ve probably been to a Baumhower’s. If not, I’ll just leave this right here. If you didn't read that, Baumhower's was founded by Bob Baumhower, a former Alabama football player. It used to be called "Wings," but the name was changed in 2012 “in order to embrace the comprehensive and expansive menu featured at each restaurant.” This was also probably because the name “Wings” is stupid and conjures up thoughts of breastaurants. That’s just speculation and there’s nothing wrong with a good breastaurant now and again. More on that in a minute.

Anyway, why was I writing about them letting me down? Very simple.

They don’t show baseball.

Well, it’s not a policy per se, but they’re certainly not in any hurry to do so. They were one of four sports bars in Mobile at the time, and I was looking for a place to watch Opening Day. I started at Buffalo Wild Wings, who didn’t usually let me down. Their food isn't great, but they have more TVs than Best Buy. That night was trivia night, though, and those trivia folks really get in the way of a good ball game. The other bar, a local joint called Heroes that’s actually a pretty cool place, was downtown, about 10 miles from where I lived, so they were at the bottom of my list. They’ve since opened a location closer to where I lived, but that does me no good in 2014. Baumhower’s was the next choice based on location, so that’s where we went. The conversation with the hostess went something like this (mind you, I am taking some poetic license for narrative purposes since this was four years ago, but it’s the gist):

Me: “Hi! What games are you showing today?”

Hostess: “Games? Uh…”

Me: “Yeah, it’s Opening Day, and I’d love to watch some baseball. The Phillies played earlier so I will take whatever games are on tonight.”

Hostess: “Baseball? Well, we show the Braves sometimes…”

She began looking around for help. A manager quickly approached the stand. I told her what I had just told the hostess, and she said, “Well, we don’t have the MLB package or anything. We show Braves games when they’re playing on regular channels, but that’s it.”

Floored, I stared at her dumbfounded and trying to think of a follow up query. I had none, but I sputtered out, “So if I wanted to watch a baseball game that wasn’t the Braves but was on, say, ESPN or FOX, could you show THAT?”

“Only if there’s not a football game or something like that.”

Again, I was confused. “Who plays football in the summer?” She shrugged and said, “We watch the spring Bama game and the draft and stuff.”

Oh.

I just thanked them and left. We went to Hooters. Speaking of breastaurants. Told you I'd come back to that.

When I explained my experience to the hostess at Hooters, she said, “Honey, I got you,” and escorted us to the best table facing four of the biggest TVs, and she had the manager put a different baseball game on all four of them. 

I spent a lot of money in Hooters that night. I probably tipped our server 40%, but I was happy and they did right by me. I’m not saying that Baumhower’s was necessarily in the wrong because I knew they were a football-centric establishment. However, they also positioned themselves as a sports grill, and last I checked, that’s a plural on “sport” there, indicating there’s more than one kind.

In the end, what’s the lesson? What’s YOUR takeaway?

Not much. Just a couple tips:

1. If you’re looking for a good football game and you happen to be in Alabama, look for Baumhower’s. If you’re looking for rounder-shaped balls or black, hard disk-shaped things, go to Hooters.

2.  Don’t knock the breastaurants, man. Hooters has a model that works, and they don’t lack in customer service. 

Another hiatus

So I disappeared for a while yet again. Yeah, yeah. I get it. I'm not good at this.

I'll just blame school again and move on. I'm thinking of a new plan for this blog thanks to some conversations with a really good friend about the point of blogging. There are so many self-absorbed and pointless blogs out there (I won't name any), but thank goodness there are even more that have either a great message (Women Can Talk Sports, for example) or at least a fun mission (I'm looking at you, Mid Century Menu). So here's the new plan.

1. This will still be about baseball. The simple rationale for this is simply "because baseball," but let me elaborate anyway. I'm about halfway through my doctoral program, and no matter how mad I get at a paper, an assignment, a reading, or myself, I know that it's all for the greater good: baseball. That's been the motivation for this entire graduate school trip, and while my plans have changed a little, the world in which those plans live is still the game I love. It's what I understand best, and it's what connects me to the world. I'm pretty one-dimensional in that sense. Realistically, baseball is the driving force for a lot of my decisions, and I know that I'm not alone in that. I'm hoping to use this blog to convey not just to baseball fans but to acolytes of all things that there is something to be gained by committing to the thing that makes you happiest. For me, it's both a professional and a personal connection, and the overarching lesson to all of you is to never let anyone belittle what drives you. Baseball is a silly sport to some, but it's become a lifestyle for me and for many others. If any of us had listened to the voices around us and in our heads telling us to find something "more important," "better," "different," or even "less stupid," we'd all be unhappily pursuing something to get by rather than something to wake up to. It's the difference between living to work and working to live, really. How many times have you been frustrated by having to work a job you barely like instead of attending something you love? Well, the game of baseball has become both my job and my hobby, and while some may caution that this is a bad combination, I disagree wholeheartedly. I'm a huge advocate of turning whatever you love into a logical way to make a living. Yes, I get that this isn't an option for everyone, and in those cases, it becomes about incorporating that thing (whether it's baseball, basketball, or basket weaving; film, television, or music; or your family, friends, and home) into as much of your life and its accompanying decisions as possible. The key is never to let go. You can sacrifice when you have to, but never, ever let go of what gives you true joy.

2. There will be something here for you. I've fallen in love with autoethnography in the last year or so because I find it both cathartic for me and for readers. Well, at least that's how it should be. I've read some self-indulgent autoethnography (I've written some, too...I'm not immune), but I still like to believe the writers had a transformative end in mind despite what turned out to be poor execution. Anyway, the previously mentioned friend with whom I've talked about the merit of blogs and I are huge proponents of the notion that a blog should provide more to its readers than to its author. In the absence of use value, a blog is nothing more than a little girl's diary. Even a personal blog can provide something to its readers while the author works through her own issues. Take the case of a friend of mine whose blog is a site for self-exploration not just for her but for her readers as well. My plan, then, is to try and offer some insight into whatever topics arise from here on out. Whether it's a list of tips, a life lesson, or just the best seat in an obscure ballpark, I want readers to have at least one takeaway. Ellis (2004) defined the autoethnography as "research, writing, story, and method that connect the autobiographical and personal to the cultural, social, and political" (p. xix). I like her definition, and I plan to use it as a guide for what I post here. There will be some primary and secondary research, a lot of writing, and hopefully some good stories that will connect my experiences to the broader culture of baseball (and sport...and maybe life), the social structure of the game, and the politics that underlie its vast green diamonds. 

3. Finally, I want to hear your experiences. I am but one baseball devotee. You are many. My experiences are only one reality, and there's no value to privileging it over others. There will always be an invitation to share your own take on what I write or what I post from others. I only ask that you respect everyone involved in the conversation because I do reserve the right to remove anything that's abusive. Stupid stuff, I will leave. Abusive stuff is gone. 

With that, happy early Opening Day or as Jen Rainwater so poetically dubbed it, "The Wait." Let's enjoy this baseball season together! Can't wait to hear your stories!

References

Ellis, C. (2004). The Ethnographic I: A methodological novel about autoethnography. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press.

Phillips, A. (2014). Simply Stated. Retrieved from: http://ampersandalso.com/

Rainwater, J. (2014) 2014: Life of a MLB season ticket holder: Why MLB Opening Day should be a national holiday.       Bullpen, Baseball and Sock Talk. Retrieved from: http://oakassocksgrl.blogspot.com/2014/03/2014-life-of-mlb-season-ticket-holder_24.html

(n.d) Women Can Talk Sports. Retrieved from: http://www.womencantalksports.com/blog/

Retroruth (2014) The Mid-century menu. Retrieved from: http://www.midcenturymenu.com/about/

Who the hell do I think I am?

I'm nobody you know. I'm just another self-righteous blogger. I'm not fooled into believing my opinion carries any more weight than yours. Whether or not I'm qualified to have an opinion is itself, well, a matter of opinion, and I'm fine with the argument that I'm not, in fact, thusly qualified.

I do, however, know a great deal about baseball. I've spent a lifetime playing, watching, attending, reading about, and otherwise absorbing myself in the game. At one point in my life--at an age where I should have already known better--I actually thought I could one day be the Jackie Robinson (or even ol' Fleet Walker) of the gender barrier. I understood the laws of physics, physiology and anatomy that declared, for all practical intents and purposes, that I would never play big league baseball, but I wanted to hold onto the dream as long as I could. You can call me an overgrown kid, if you'd like, but don't call me stupid or misguided. I knew it would never happen, but I loved--still love--the game of baseball so much that I catch my breath every time I see the field, cry every time I see the majestic swings of Mickey or Lou or Ted (or Chase), and feel a warmth like none other the first time every spring that I hear the crack of the bat or the pop of the ball in the glove.

I am not a bleacher coach. I despise bleacher coaches. I don't wax philosophical about what Joe Torre should be doing to win (as if he needs me to) or what the Texas Longhorns and Augie Garrido could have done to beat Paul Mainieri and LSU. I don't question the opening day rosters or the mid-season moves. I'm (in)famous for saying to the bleacher coaches, "If you know so much, why aren't you the one being paid to make those decisions?" Of course I might see things differently than Torre or Garrido or any number of others from the outside, but I never forget that "outside" really is where I am. I don't know what really goes on in the clubhouse, the front office, the dugout, the weight room, or even the field during a game. I recognize that what I have to say about the game is conjecture at best, wishful thinking at worst.

I do get heavily involved, though. I love choosing a player for one reason or another and just following his season, the ups and downs, the trades, the rumors, and (god forbid) the injuries. I want the story of the player. Ever since I had to give up playing, it's worked as kind of a surrogate season for me. I seem to be drawn to guys who remind me of myself when I was on the field. It keeps me close to it in some strange way. This year, the target of my scouting report and box score obsession is a AA Southern Leaguer named Evan Frey who plays center field for the Mobile BayBears (Arizona Diamondbacks). I'm sure I'll mention him again, but the overview is this: great defensive player, excellent arm, blazing speed, streaky at the plate. I see something in him, though, and that's why I keep my eye on him. Without him even realizing it, what he does on the field helps me feel like part of the game.

I understand how cheesy that can sound, but truly, for me, it's really about loving something. Baseball and I have had the kind of relationship that inspires sappy movies. There have been good times, bad times, separations, reunions, and awkward sexual advances. Most recently, I spent four seasons having an affair with baseball while my real-life, human significant other sat at home, thinking he had nothing to worry about. I realize that the last four sentences just made me sound like I should be writing this from a very white, very soft room, so allow me to tell this tale.

Now bear with me; this is by no means a mushy love story. I promise. I wouldn't do that to myself, let alone you.

I met someone five years ago who seemed like a great catch. He was good-looking, smart, had a great sense of humor, college educated...blah, blah, blah. As I'm notorious for viewing dating "like a guy," it took a while for me to give it a shot. When I finally did, we had a great time, and I even wondered why I hadn't tried this whole "relationship" thing earlier. There was, however, the faintest little mysterious objection in the deepest reaches of my mind. I couldn't quite figure out what this hunch was trying to tell me, so I just attributed it to commitment issues.

It was July when I learned what that objection was all about. The radio station where we both worked organized an outing to a Minor League game. Of course I was excited, but when I shared my enthusiasm with this guy, he actually said these words: "Screw baseball. It's stupid, it's boring, and the players are all douchebags. Anyone can play it; it's easy. Baseball is for wusses. I'm just going for the free beer." I would have been less stung if he'd said, "Your ass is fat, and I'm sleeping with your mom." Let's dissect that horrible speech piece by piece, shall we?

1. "Screw baseball. It's stupid, it's boring..." --Screw you, pal! People only say things are stupid when they don't know enough about them to say anything better than that. Oh, and boring? Red Barber once said, "Baseball is dull only to dull minds," dummy. Say what you want about the "lulls" between innings, but there is never a moment during play when nothing at all is happening. You just have to know what to look for, and only a dull mind would miss that.

2. "...and the players are all douchebags." --First of all, do you know every person who's ever played the game? How can you say they're all douchebags? Second, some of the most extraordinary people in my life have played the game of baseball. Does that mean I find "douchebags" extraordinary?

3. "Anyone can play it; it's easy." --Right, buddy. How can anything be easy when you have one fifth of a second to think about doing something, decide to do it, and actually do it? From the defensive side, I read a nice long book by Mike Stadler that says that, in concept, fielding a baseball is actually kind of unnatural (it's called The Psychology of Baseball: Inside the Mental Game of the Major League Player; you should grab it). And don't get me started on pitching. Good pitching takes a baffling amount of talent.

4. "Baseball is for wusses." --Tell that to Ryan Howard or Jonathan Broxton. Hell, tell that to Tim Lincecum or Dustin Pedroia. People who say that are people who couldn't hit the ball off of the tee when they were four years old or cried when they got hit by a Little League "fastball."

5. "I'm just going for the free beer." --Alright, I can't argue with free beer.

Now, for what I really said...

"Oh, okay. Well, I think it'll be fun. I love baseball."

Really?! That's how I defend the love of my life? "I think it'll be fun." I should have been hit by a Joel Zumaya heater right then and there! Hey, in my defense, I was in that stage of the relationship where compromises don't seem like a big deal, so I chose not fighting with him about it for the sake of our...whatever...it was stupid.

It gets worse. This was in 2004, and something big happened in baseball that year. Something big happens in baseball every year, but in 2004, it was something even a Yankees fan like myself had to tip her cap to. Come on; eighty-six years is a long time.

It was October, and my radio station was working the county fair. We had to keep the van tuned to our own frequency, so there was no way to listen to Boston in the World Series. A couple of the guys solved that problem by bringing a portable TV out to the grounds and huddling around it. Naturally, I joined them so I, too, could see the making of history and cry the way most women do at the end of Fried Green Tomatoes. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and then I went home.

At first, I couldn't figure out why he was being what can only be called "pissy." Finally, after an hour or two of slamming things and the silent treatment, the tongue-lashing began. He attacked the game of baseball and how "lame" it was and how he didn't know why people cared about something so stupid. He called it a redneck game and a couple other not-so-nice things, and I finally had to ask him about the motivation for his violent hatred. To this day, when I recall his answer, I hear it in the voice of a 7-year-old who just got pushed off of a swing. "It's just stupid, and anyone who likes it is a loser."

Yes, little boy, but why don't you like it?

"Because it's just gay, and it's played by fags."

Okay, no reason to turn this into a hate crime. What does that mean? What made you hate something this much? Maybe the moment he used this set of words as a descriptor, I should have walked out the door. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome.

"I just think it's f@c%ing stupid."

At that point, I gathered that I'd never get a real answer, so I dropped it. To this day, in fact, I have never been given an explanation. It's much less relevant now; it's more of a curiosity thing these days. I realized something at that point. I realized that I would have to try to find a way to balance my love of baseball with my love of this knucklehead. It can work, right?

I was reduced, for the rest of the Series, to bribing vendor booths at the fair with free CDs and Hardee's coupons to let me sneak in to watch the game with them so he wouldn't see me. I actually felt dirty, but I felt dirty in the best imaginable way. I was watching baseball; I was watching history.

Skip ahead to the next few seasons when I resorted to sneaking to baseball games, telling him I was going to grab coffee with the girls. I would then disappear for three to four hours only to return with a nice red tint to my face. Boy, was that some hot, hot coffee! One year for my birthday, when my mom asked me what I wanted, I answered without hesitation, "I want to go to a baseball game and not have to hide it." That's what I did. My mom came to visit, we went to a game, and we told him. He wouldn't show his ass in front of my mom, now, would he?

No, but he did when she left. Again, he went with the, "only douchebags play baseball," mantra. That's what he stuck with for four seasons while we were together. I was really stuck in a weird place because I really did care about him, but I felt like a huge part of me had died. I guess I always knew it wouldn't work with him, but it wasn't until the final year that I realized that only one love could survive. It would have to be him or baseball.

Things got progressively worse with us for a number of reasons, and when he left this past November, I did the obligatory mourning thing, and then a light bulb went off. I could go to as many baseball games as I wanted. Hell, I could have baseball games in my bathroom for all it mattered now! I could hardly contain my excitement, and February 22nd couldn't arrive fast enough (that was the first game of the University of South Alabama schedule).

I finally had it back! I knew I was different immediately, but I soon began to realize that other people saw it in me, too. Even my mom looked at me at a game and said, "You're happy." I was. I really was. I'll never get back the time I lost sneaking around or missing out entirely just to avoid a fight, but I will also never be without the game again as long as I live. Baseball is who I've always been, from the days when I used to sit in my room drawing Major League team logos and watching the Cubs (or White Sox) on WGN to crying during Game 7 of the 1992 NLCS when Pittsburgh fell to Atlanta (again). Baseball is who I am, from sneaking off to South Alabama games under the guise of "girl talk" to finally being able to spend every home game perched in my seat down the right field line at Hank Aaron Stadium in 2009. Baseball is who I will be, as I start to think I should use my broadcasting experience and my knowledge of the game to create a younger, female version of Peter Gammons...or just make sure I pass this on to my kids some day.

Friends have often called me Annie Savoy (Bull Durham), and at first, I took offense to that. She was a little bit on the crazy side, and I've never made a pitcher wear women's underwear or breathe through his eyelids. Then I got to thinking a little, and I'm okay with it. It was Annie, after all, who said, "I believe in the church of baseball."

And I do. God, it feels good to touch home.