Читать книгу 100 Miles of Baseball - Dale Jacobs - Страница 7

March 30 – April 1, 2018

Wayne State University vs Ashland University

Henry Ford Community College vs Macomb Community College

Detroit Tigers vs Pittsburgh Pirates

Friday, March 30, 2018

Wayne State University Warriors vs Ashland University Eagles

Harwell Baseball Field, Detroit MI

Game Time Temperature: 42°F

We park on the service road behind the park and walk around the right field wall towards Harwell Field, dedicated just last year to honour Ernie Harwell, longtime radio voice of the Tigers. Above us looms the enormous “Wayne State University Athletics” sign, tall enough to be visible to the cars that speed by on I-94 and the Lodge Freeway, in the near distance beyond the outfield walls.

We round the corner, expecting the players to be warming up for the second game of the doubleheader. Instead, the end of game one is arrayed before us. 3-2 Ashland in the bottom of the seventh; since it’s a doubleheader today, they’ll play seven rather than nine innings. Wayne State with a runner on first and one out. We stop to watch along the fence just past first base as the runner advances to second on a passed ball, putting the tying run in scoring position. A groundout to second base moves the runner to third, but with two outs. There’s no time to settle in, no infield practice to ease me into the game. No slow build-up to this moment.

I’m wearing thermal hiking pants, two thermal shirts, a pink down vest and black puffy down coat. I have a hat, gloves, and mittens and still, compared to many other people here, I am woefully unprepared for the weather. One man has a propane heater beside his elaborate chair and umbrella set-up. I know there will be a time during the summer when I will be incredulous I ever wore this many layers.

There’s a concession stand, a long table with fruit, Costco cookies, chips, and coolers with drinks. The long, forest-green scoreboard on the left field wall hearkens back to a pre-digital era and remains one of my favourite things in all the baseball parks I’ve visited. “Detroit” and “Visitors” are painted in white, as are the lines and squares for scorekeeping. It is timeless and classic, representing all that is baseball—hope and infinite possibility.

As I try to think about something other than how cold I am, I focus on the word “Detroit” on the scoreboard across the field. As befits the Motor City, there is a constant hum of traffic and I watch as cars arch along the freeway, disappearing into the skyline of downtown Detroit. My favourite part of my daily commute is looking across the Detroit River to the art deco Guardian Building, the neo-Gothic spires of the Ally Detroit Center, and the imposing dark glass towers of the optimistically—and ironically—named Renaissance Center. When I was growing up in Edmonton, Alberta, Detroit was a place I knew from song lyrics and from watching the Red Wings play the Oilers. I’ve lived here long enough that it no longer seems strange that Detroit lies to the north of my Canadian city. I also understand that Journey did not employ a fact checker when they wrote the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believin’.” If they had, they would have known that South Detroit does not exist, except in the hearts and minds of Windsorites who like to embrace the idea that South Detroit is Windsor.

An intentional walk puts men on the corners with two out and Ryan Mergener up to bat. As Mergener steps into the batter’s box, I can see why Ashland would rather pitch to the much smaller outfielder than to Brad Baldwin who now stands at first. The move changes the calculus, opening up a different set of possibilities, changing the board so that it now tilts slightly more in Ashland’s favour. A home run or even an extra base hit is now more unlikely, but a single still scores the run. Or a wild pitch. Or passed ball. A couple of walks. A strikeout would cleanly end the game, but any contact puts the onus back on Ashland to make a play on defense. So much can happen and each event alters the next set of possibilities like an ever-branching and almost infinitely intricate decision tree.

The short version of what happens, what you’ll read in the game summary, is this: “Ryan Mergener grounded out to shortstop to end the game.” What that sentence doesn’t tell you is what I see as I gather myself into my coat and watch Mergener make contact with the ball. The scoop at short isn’t clean, and as the ball is bobbled, the shortstop has to rush his throw to first base. Mergener is called out, but the play is extremely close, with the first baseman’s foot pulled off the bag because of the hurried throw. There is no real argument, though, and no chance of appeal. In every level but Major League Baseball, the call by the umpire forestalls any other possible outcomes, turning a bobbled ball, a hurried throw, and a questionable call into “Ryan Mergener grounded out to shortstop to end the game.”

As the players regroup at their respective dugouts, we retreat to the car for the half hour break between games. It’s a relief to be out of the cold and the wind, listening to Dan Dickerson call the Tigers game. In the bottom of the seventh, the Tigers score four runs and take a 6-4 lead. Dickerson’s excitement is contagious, and I wonder again if this team might not be so bad after all.

On the way back to the ballpark, I do up buttons I’ve never used on my hood before. I try to think about things other than how cold I am. Thoughts like “What have I just agreed to do?” and “I will do this forty-nine more times this summer” come at me like pitches. I foul them off, wait for more positive thoughts.

The biting wind hasn’t let up, but at least it’s sunny as we take our seats in the tiny grandstand behind home plate. There are groups of players tossing the ball around in the outfield while the infielders take some final ground balls before the game begins. Thin clouds ribbon the air above Wayne State’s version of the Green Monster, a thirty-foot wall that stretches from the foul pole in left field to dead center where it juts straight back towards home for ten feet before dropping back to six feet and continuing to the left field pole. Above and to the right of the 310 marker down the right field line is a depiction of a classic radio microphone superimposed on two crossed bats. Between an insignia that includes a microphone and a baseball that fits over the bottom tip of the home plate sits a banner with the inscription, “Harwell Field.” A scoreboard that features Detroit and Visitors abuts the warning track farther into left field, while the Wayne State logo and “1918” predominate over left center. I can’t imagine we’ll see a home run over that wall.

The field in front of me shows all the wear of a Michigan winter, the grass a pale shadow of the green of late summer. As I watch the game I’m always half aware of the steady line of cars on the Lodge beyond the park in right field. The rhythm of all those people going about their days settles me, gives a backdrop to the action on the field.

Behind the grandstand is the centerpiece of the new Harwell Field complex, a replica of the exterior of the Ebbets Field Rotunda, while inside is a recreation of the Ebbets Field scoreboard, all of it a tribute to the beginning of Ernie Harwell’s career with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1948. Photos and quotations from Harwell’s forty years as a broadcaster in Detroit overwhelm the small interior space with nostalgia. Tiger Stadium. “Welcome to the corner of Michigan & Trumbull.” A young Al Kaline. “That ball is looooong gone.” Lou Whitaker turning a double play. “It’s two for the price of one.” Sparky Anderson. The 1968 Tigers. Mark Fidrych. “He stood there like the house by the side of the road.” The 1984 Tigers. Pure Tigers. Pure Harwell. And another reminder of the game that’s happening right now, just a few miles south.

In the bottom of the first, Wayne State’s catcher, John Blaszczak, hits the pitcher on a throw to second on a steal attempt. In the third, the new Wayne State pitcher, Brennan Cox, walks two and then hits the next batter to load the bases. After a strikeout, he allows a walk to score a run and a single to score two more. It’s a lonely walk off the field for Cox, but his teammates in the dugout try to pick him up, telling him, “It’s okay. There’s a lot of game left.” By the time Wayne State bats in the third, it’s already 7-0 Ashland.

Still trying to distract myself from how cold I am, I think about how, when we first started going to Tigers games at Comerica Park, I loved sitting way up in Section 325 because the game seemed to unfold like a silent chess match on a vibrant and vast green field. Here, sitting a few feet away from the catcher, I’m keenly aware of all the sounds of the game. I can hear on-field banter, coaches talking to players, and players talking to each other. I can hear an Ashland player taunting a player named McCaw by cawing his name like a crow. “McCAAAW, McCAAAAAW.” They call a player named Vinnie ‘V.’ They say “Go V!” “Hit it hard, Vinny. Nice and relaxed.” Used to the sonorous crack of a wooden bat, I find the metallic “twank” of Vinny’s aluminum bat jarring. I hear players call each other by their numbers. #23 isn’t twenty-three, he’s “two-three” and #22 is “twos.”

Behind the grandstand is a small, newish brick building with restrooms, Wi-Fi, exhibits, and, I am happy to discover, heat. I scan the tribute exhibit to Ernie Harwell as I try to warm up. I copy something Ernie said about his wife, Lulu, into my notebook—“She planted perennials in places we rented”—and I feel warm thinking about the kind of person she must have been. My core body temperature restored, I return to my bleacher seat and try to settle my mind on the game. It’s the bottom of the fourth and it’s 7-1 for Ashland. The Wayne State Warriors are bantering amongst themselves like it’s 1-1 in the final inning of a World Series game and anything is possible.

Watching Wayne State struggle makes me appreciate all over again that baseball is hard. It’s hard to hit a baseball. Hard to snag a sharply hit grounder. Hard to pitch with consistency. Watching the major leagues sometimes makes me forget this basic truth about the game.

As Wayne State come to bat in the bottom of the fifth, the game has officially settled into blowout territory. With little doubt about the outcome of the game, my mind begins to wander, drifting to the cars on the Lodge and to wondering about the score in the Tigers game. The sound of aluminum striking the ball brings me back to the game. It’s hard-hit to the left side of the infield. The shortstop ranges far to his right, makes a beautiful pick up on a tough hop, then executes a tremendous throw to first from deep in the hole. The next batter hits the ball to the right of the infield, but the second baseman is able to move quickly to his left, go down on one knee, and flip to first for the third out. Even in a blowout there are moments of transcendence, reasons to keep watching, to be in the moment of the game.

It’s 4 degrees Celsius and the wind has picked up. Dale seems not to notice or care how cold it is. In fact, I see he has a small smile that no one else would notice. “You’re going to win this one yet,” yells a Wayne State fan behind me. I admire their optimism. The two teams stand in their dugouts, shifting their weight, looking a little like cattle in a shed trying to stay warm on a chilly night.

Wayne State are down 10-2 in the bottom of the sixth, but there’s no quit in their bench. All the players have been intensely upbeat for the whole game and they remain positive—it’s one of the most raucous benches I’ve ever heard, even when they’re down eight runs. Though it’s not yet April, these players have been together since early mid-February, working out and playing exhibition games in Florida before starting conference play a week ago. They feel like a team rather than a bunch of guys who happen to play together.

Chance Hitchcock is still pitching for Ashland, but seems to be tiring. Sitting this close allows me to concentrate on his mechanics and the movement of his pitches, a luxury I’m not used to having. I ask the Ashland pitchers in front of us, recording speed and charting pitches, how fast he is throwing. He’s still topping 93 so he’s been sitting low 90s with his fastball most of the game. With movement, it’s been too much for the Wayne State batters, though they do manage to score two more runs.

I check the Tigers score on my phone. It’s 10-10 in the top of the twelfth.

It’s 10-4 for Ashland. Moms around me are keeping scorecards. I’ve decided not to keep one for this project so I can focus on other things at the game, but I acknowledge the irony of how much my mind wanders without one. I realize, too, that I’ve missed a whole half-inning because I’ve been listening to the redwing blackbirds in the outfield and thinking about how their song sounds like summer to me. Dale wakes me from my reverie by pointing out that we can see the movement of the pitches from where we’re sitting. I watch the pitches, not noticing that my mind has again drifted away to the birds’ song until a foul ball comes screaming toward us, stopped by the chain link fence a few feet in front of me. I gasp and am reminded that I used to keep a scorecard so I would keep an eye on the ball when we had our season tickets just past first base at Comerica Park.

The game isn’t close at all and my mind goes down the rabbit hole of fearing I don’t have what it takes to do this baseball project. Dale’s attention is keenly attuned to the game’s nuances while I am watching birds in the outfield. Behind me, a man says, “You’re doing great, honey,” and for a moment I think he’s talking to me about my writing. More likely he’s the Wayne State pitcher’s dad, but I love what he says, even though it’s 12-4 at bottom of the seventh for Ashland. I force myself to concentrate. A ball goes over the fence into foul territory and a fan picks it up and passes it to a player in the Ashland dugout. Then a ball fouls off the building behind us and a Wayne State player trots over to retrieve it from the parking lot. It’s the final inning.

A man near me, pacing behind the back stop to keep warm, spots a Tim Horton’s Roll-Up-the-Rim-to-Win cup in the trash bin, retrieves it, reads the already-rolled-up rim. I assume it says “Please Try Again,” because he tosses it back into the bin. It’s the final inning. Still 12-4. Three balls, two strikes, and two out. There’s a hit and a man on base now. I can’t feel my toes. #42 comes up to bat and hits a long fly ball into center to end the game. “Can of corn,” I say contentedly, and look over to Dale. I smile to see that he’s still smiling. It’s a smile that lingers.

As I watch the players and the people in the stands after the game, I realize that Heidi and I are perhaps the only people in the crowd of fifty who don’t personally know some of the players. The Ashland players talk to the parents who have made the trip up from Ohio, working their way slowly towards the team bus after a quick talk with family and friends. Instead of a team bus for the Wayne State players, it’s rakes and rollers and hoses as they spread out to work on the field. Life as a Division II college baseball player.

I check my phone again: 10-10 in the top of the thirteenth in the Tigers game.

Walking back to the car, we take a selfie of ourselves all bundled up beside the Detroit/Visitors scoreboard I love.

“Happy we’re doing this?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say with hesitation, thinking about my cold toes and frozen cheeks. “You?”

“Absolutely.”

Final Score: 12-4 Ashland