Читать книгу 100 Miles of Baseball - Dale Jacobs - Страница 13

Albion College Britons vs Adrian College Bulldogs

Champions Stadium at Frank Joranko Field, Albion MI

Game Time Temperature: 61°F

The game begins with a horn-heavy recorded version of the American national anthem. The fans, caps removed, silently stand, turning away from the field at an awkward angle to face the flag flying over the broadcast booth. This is a classically picturesque baseball park, accented with Albion’s purple and yellow colours. There are plaques throughout, documenting who donated what. Everything in the park seems to have a sponsor: the dugout, the stands, the concourse. It is a well-kept field and signs tell us that sunflower seeds aren’t allowed in the ballpark, which adds to its pristine feel. The crowd is about a hundred people, a mix of students, community members, parents, and grandparents. They’re quiet but attentive, most are wearing alumni sweatshirts or collegiate attire and seem to know the players by name.

The weather is the best we’ve had so far but it’s still far from what you’d call hot. Or even warm. It’s not quite the kind of day that says, “Let’s go to a baseball game!” Some people are wearing shorts, others are under blankets. Some seem to be dressing for the weather they want, not the weather we have. Two girls in front of me are wearing shorts and crop tops. They’re covered in goosebumps, trying to pretend they’re not cold.

The sun warms my arms and my face as I sit behind home plate. It’s the top of the second and already 3-1 for the Adrian College Bulldogs. For the first time this year, I am at a baseball game, I am not cold, and there’s no threat of rain in the forecast.

Runner on second with Sean O’Keefe, the Adrian shortstop, at the plate, desperately trying to lay down a sacrifice bunt. Everything from Mitch Shedlowsky is inside, though, a couple of pitches almost brushing O’Keefe’s arm before he is finally walked. Zack Zschering, up with the bunt still on, is hit in the back. Bases loaded, no one out, despite the Bulldogs’ willingness to trade an out for runners at second and third. Single, double, and it’s suddenly 6-1 with no outs in the second. End of the day for Shedlowsky as David Kauff trots in from the bullpen that sits just beyond the foul pole in left field. By the time he records the third out, one more run has scored on a sacrifice fly. 7-1 Adrian in the middle of the second inning.

Dale asks me if I saw that ball curve. I did not. He points out that Adrian’s pitcher keeps throwing to the outside corner and his pitch count is low. I’d been watching a pair of geese fly over the field. I remind myself to watch the pitches. I see two strikes before I notice turkey vultures circling over a stand of trees beyond right field. There are still no visible leaves or even buds on the trees. “Did you see that?” Dale asks again. I say “No, sorry.” Before I can ask what I missed, something else on the field has happened and people are clapping. I am missing more than I am seeing. My anxiety about this project grows steadily with every pitch I fail to see. I worry that I don’t know how to watch baseball that isn’t a Tigers game.

Top of the third and the Albion shortstop makes a good play on a hard ground ball. You could see him gather himself, arms out, maneuvering his body behind the incoming ball, scooping and then setting himself for the throw to first base. Good, but not fluid, almost as if you could see him thinking about each step in the process. It wasn’t part of his muscle memory, wasn’t yet effortless. It’s the difference between watching Jose Iglesias or Francisco Lindor field a ball at short and the play that was just made by the shortstop for the Britons or the infield plays at the Wayne State or Henry Ford games. It’s the difference in talent, yes, but also in the act of repetition until it’s second nature. Muscle memory. No thinking necessary.

The starter for the Bulldogs, a freshman from Westland, Michigan named Jordan Williams, has been impressive, especially from our seats directly behind home plate. A big right-hander, Williams has a classic delivery. Feet shoulder-width apart, glove raised to his face, Williams begins his motion facing halfway between third base and home before a slight pivot of his right foot brings his left shoulder in line with the plate. Left leg comes up parallel with his hip in an easy motion. The right leg then bends at the knee, left leg striding towards home, while the glove hand comes straight up, as if counterbalancing his throwing arm, which dips below and behind his hip. In his motion, Williams is smooth and deceptive.

Before each pitch, the Adrian coach calls out a set of three-digit numbers to indicate both pitch selection and location. The catcher, Frank Resto, checks the cheat sheet on his wrist guard before translating the digits into a set of signs for the pitcher, mainly the firm fastball with an occasional changeup mixed in. Set the glove and Williams hits it, his fastball painting the outside corner to right-handers, while it sets up his changeups to left-handed hitters. Through four innings Williams has still only given up two hits.

It’s the top of the fifth. Instead of watching the game, I watch people watching the game. Am I the only one whose attention isn’t fully on the field?

There’s one out and the bases are loaded. I concentrate on pitches but a flock of geese flies overhead and I miss a run being walked in. I refocus. A pile of napkins escapes from someone’s picnic beside first base and the wind scatters them. The napkins collect in the netting of the infield. Ten people scramble to extricate them.

Time to get my mind back in the game. I study the scoreboard and the distribution of hits, runs, and errors. Runs accumulate quickly and it’s now 12-1, then 13-1. I look at the scoreboard again. For a moment, the 1 in the home team’s slot appears to be burnt out. I imagine the Albion bench looking up and thinking some sort of miracle has happened and the score is only 3-1. Imagine the hope they might feel, realizing they could come back and win this game. But then, as quickly as it vanished, the 1 lights up again and a run is scored. The score is now 14-1 but I don’t know how the run happened. Suddenly, and inexplicably, I find myself missing Curtis Granderson.

As anyone who knows me well can testify, I’ve never really gotten over the Granderson trade. The summer I became a Granderson fan was the year that I, like Curtis, was at a make-it-or-break-it time in my career. He, like me, often swung and missed. But, inning after inning, he kept stepping up to the plate as if this at-bat could be the one to seal the deal. Every time my professional self-doubts crept in, I’d summon the look on Curtis’ face when he stepped up to the plate and stared down the pitcher.

For the first few seasons after he was traded, I’d run my own “Who’s Your Tiger?” promotion, hoping to find someone to replace him. At first, I thought Austin Jackson might fit the bill, but then when he was traded—stunningly—in the middle of a game, I couldn’t handle the heartbreak of losing another player. Without having a single player to watch, I had to watch a team. I began focusing more on the Tigers’ ups and downs throughout the season, rather than on the narrative of a single player.

The Albion pitchers have had no command as the walk totals have mounted throughout the game. By the end of the fifth inning, I’ve lost count of how many Adrian batters have been hit by pitches. More walks, more hit batsmen in the seventh. Yet another pitching change for Albion as Chris Janson’s “Buy Me a Boat” plays over the PA system. Rural Michigan. Another hit batter and the Adrian bench cheers.

The cheering crowd pulls me back into the game. Watching the crowd watch the game, I feel like an outsider not cheering for either team or rooting for a particular player. I am a complete outsider. I’m not an alumna of either school, nor do I have a loved one or favourite player on the field. I have no stake in this game, no reason to cheer for a particular outcome. Without Curtis, I had to change how I watched the Tigers. Without the Tigers, I might have to change how I watch baseball. Comforted by this new reality, I find myself settling into the game.

The bases are loaded again. A man in the front calls out to the Albion pitcher, “It’s okay. You got it.” A grandma says, “Focus. Let’s finish this.” Silence drops on the crowd as the pitcher winds up: there’s a collective drawing of breath. Just as an Adrian player yells, “Come on, baby!” his teammate gets plunked and the Adrian dugout erupts in cheers and laughter. It’s 15-1 now. A walk makes it 16-1 and the bases are still loaded. Another walk makes it 17-1. A steadfast man in an Albion sweatshirt claps a few times and shouts, “Come on, you got him!” to the Albion pitcher. Another pitcher is brought in.

They’re down seventeen runs but the fans are still here, clapping and saying “Good eye, good eye.” A player gets caught between bases and is chased down. I’m glad I’m not trying to record this play in a scorecard. “Go Drew!” shouts a lady, perhaps someone’s mom. She then adds, “Come on, someone’s got to cheer for these kids.” An easy fielding play gets flubbed; there are two Britons on base and two outs. A can of corn finishes it all off.

Despite the score, the crowd remains supportive throughout, encouraging both the pitchers and the hitters, always looking beyond the score. Anything close to this kind of home loss at a Tigers game and the park would be empty. I doubt we would have left, but if I were watching it on television, I guarantee I would have turned it off by this point. Either way, if it were the Tigers I certainly wouldn’t be enjoying myself. At this game, though, I am enjoying myself. Some of it is the weather—just sitting in the sun watching baseball after all the bad weather we endured over the past month. But that’s not all of it.

Watching Williams pitch brings me joy. Trying to figure out what the Adrian coach was doing with his numerical signals fascinates me. Seeing the approach of the Adrian players, taking every at-bat seriously, fielding all their chances, no matter the score. The whole game—and the score in it—is no longer the unit that matters, but instead the inning and the individual encounters on each pitch. Those are, of course, the moments that make up any game. But there is a difference when you’re forced to pay close attention to the smaller moments, to the adjustments each player makes, to how the pitcher (and coach) approach each hitter, to the way the fielders set themselves, to the game instead of the score of the game.

Final Score: 18-1 Adrian