Fig 1.1
Steve the bartender
Fig 1.2
A long day in Chicago
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Baseball, the Midwest, Seven Friends and a Van
"Baseball as Metaphor for Life:
the Defining Moment of My Late-Twenties"
Or: "How I justified a 2,400-mile trip to my parents and friends who hate sports"
An essay by Ed Harrison
The author with a longtime Indians fan, Cleveland.
Prologue
"Well-it's our game; that's the chief fact in connection with it: America's game; it has the snap, go, fling of the American atmosphere; it belongs as much to our institutions, fits into them as significantly as our Constitution's laws; is just as important in the sum total of our historic life."
-Walt Whitman on baseball (from Ken Burns' Baseball: An Illustrated History)
"Wow … I guess you guys must like baseball."
-Prosaic commentary from Frank, AAA Triptik Master, Needham, Mass., August 1999
On the surface, it seemed insane. Four midwest cities. Three last place teams. One team sold out for the season. Two time zones. One van.
But, in reality, it had its genesis in 1993. That year, Cleveland's Mistake by the Lake, Municipal Stadium, was slated to close to make way for another "everything old is new" ballpark-luxurious Jacobs' Field, in every way the antithesis of its dank, lonely forebear.
A huge fan of crappy sports teams from different cities (I always want my Boston teams to succeed but for awhile, including the night I met my wife, I exclusively wore an LA Clippers hat), I planned a trip to Cleveland from Washington. Me and five friends would make the 12-hour drive. No need to call ahead for tickets: "Plenty of good seats still available."
It never happened. A combination of my low-paying nonprofit job and the overall uncertainty of the post-Bush economy that gave my companions equally dismal job prospects, made it an impossibility. No more Municipal Stadium. Shortly thereafter, I vowed that, were it a fiscal possibility and a reasonable drive (although reasonable was never actually defined), I would not the closing of another classic ballpark.
So, in May, when I polled some friends on the possibility of a trip to Detroit's Tiger Stadium, I learned that Sean Audet and his fiancée, Erin Hobin, were exploring a midwestern swing. From there, the plan was hatched. Two closing parks (Detroit and Milwaukee's County Stadium), one classic park (Chicago's Wrigley Field) and one of the new-retro parks (the aforementioned Jake) would comprise our trip. The scheduling gods were in our favor-we could do the four cities in six days (thank God Pittsburgh and Philadelphia were away that week). All that stood in our way was eighteen inches of wall map: Waltham, Mass. to Milwaukee.
Doesn't Anyone Know Where French Lick Is?
Monday, August 23
Milwaukee is very, very far from Waltham. One of the great treats of America's interstate highway system is the "far-off destination" feature of its signage-if you're staying on the same interstate, the familiar green rectangle will list the highway, one close-in destination and one long-range one. For example, travelling south on I-95 in Virginia, there's a split with another interstate: stay south on 95, and the sign promises Miami. Go onto the other road, and you're off to Atlanta. Never mind that Atlanta is a good 12 hours away and you've still got to hit the Carolinas, Georgia and deceptively-long Florida before you're in Scarface country … it's just nice to know you're making progress.
No such luck on the Waltham-Milwaukee trek. The entire group … me, my patient wife Juliet, Dan Ring, Doug Fraim and the afforementioned Sean and Erin, had no idea how long the trek would be. As we departed my office in our gunmetal sliver GMC Safari van, the estimates included 4:00 p.m., 3:00 p.m. and 5:00 p.m. the following day (plus a bid of "one dollar" from Ring). Travelling in a parallel universe in his Maxima were Mike DiLorenzo and his friend, Steve "Steve the Bartender" Womack. Womack explained their relationship succinctly later in the trip: "DiLo's an alcholic and I'm a bartender. What more is there to know?" And the trip was on.
And on. And on. The following states are deceptively wide: Pennsylvania and Ohio. After I ran off a quick four hours to the Pa. border, Fraim (pilot) and Ring (copilot) volunteered for the yeoman's duty of traversing the Quaker State. Ostensibly while the rest of us slept. Ostensibly. You see, Fraim and Ring were so hepped up on goofballs (or, more specifically, Penguin caffeine mints and Mountain Dew), that the two put on a show that delved into performance art. Give and take, call and response-the schtick of one responding to the other for six straight hours … at one point, Dan became Cab Calloway, scatting his way through … well, everything he said. (One could hear the late bandleader twirling in his grave at the thought of six white twentysomethings eschewing his good name during a trip to watch baseball--scatting became the theme of the trip).
A heroic effort, the two led us through pockmarked I-80, marred by construction, narrowed lanes and the nefarious devil trucks, 18-wheelers that, in the still of the night, take on a particularly nefarious tone. I took over in Ohio and drove into Indiana, where we marked the border-crossing with a breakfast of fast food. Inside the rest stop, I asked numerous cashiers, hangers on and the like where French Lick was. Hell, everyone in Boston knows where it is: it's the home of our hoops deity. Larry. "The hick from French Lick." The Hub is 750 miles from the Hoosier State and we know where it is. Not one person knew where French Lick was. Hey, next time some goober from Terre Haute asks me where Calbert Cheaney lives, I'll be damned if I tell them.
"The Merits of a Crumbling Municipal Ballpark vs. a Night of Transparent-Topped Lesbians," or, "My Introduction to Milwaukee"
Tuesday, August 24
The Executive Inn postcard touts the moderately-priced hotel as "Milwaukee's Business-Class hotel." Well, it may not be that, but it was cheap. After 18 hours in the car, I needed a nap. And a shower. I got both. That night, at 5, we departed for the County Stadium-normally not too difficult a walk, but the sketchy neighborhood convinced us to hail a hackney.
"You guys in town for the Lillith Fair concert?"
Actually, I had no idea the LF was in town. You couldn't pay me enough to go see it. Well, it'd be cool if they co-opted the bill from Lollapalooza I (which I'm still pissed I missed, even some eight years later). Maybe if Sarah McLaughlin were doing a duet with Ice T (like when he did Sly and the Family Stone's "Don't Call me N*****, Whitey" with Jane's Addiction), then I'd go.
"No, we're here from Boston. We've come to Milwaukee to go to the Brewers game." This was the same conversation starter I used with toll collectors throughout the trip. So far, the friendliest toll collector was the one at the start of the Indiana Toll Road. She was also the cutest toll collector I've ever seen-like if Bridget Fonda suddenly started working at the new 10A interchange in Worcester on the Pike. The others-the Pike, those in Ohio-really didn't give a rat's ass where I was from, or where I was going. And, come to find out, neither did this cabbie. He was interested in holding court.
"Man, the Lillith Fair is here tonight. They got all them lesbians here. You know, they wear these see-through tops." As intrigued as I was by this prospect (as most men, sadly, are), I just nodded politely. Then our driver took a tangent. "Man, in Milwaukee there's not a lot of crime. But now, we've got this new police chief, this black guy …" Oh Jeez. There's nothing I hate more than a complete stranger making a racist comment, or leading up to one. How do I react? I should call him on it. So I do.
"Hey, man, what difference does it make if he's black?"
Actually, I don't. I sat there silently as he discussed the merits (or lack thereof) of this new police chief, from New York (wow-that's two strikes in Milwaukee: black and from New York) … and blah blah blah (luckily, now I can see the cranes looming over new Miller Park and realize our ride is over).
Ladies and Gentlemen: now begins the most pleasant surprise of our trip. Welcome to crumbling, filthy … heavenly Milwaukee County Stadium. This park was our upset pick as "park whose reality was much greater than its national perception from watching it on TV":
You are guaranteed a good seat. Always.
The lower-deck general admissions are $7, easily the best bargain in baseball.
The people are friendly.
The team blows.
They serve four kinds of sausage.
Their mascot stations himself in the outfield in a haus that overlooks Center Field. When the home team hits a homer, he slides into a stein of beer.
They give away collector's beer cups. When they run out, they use insulated coffee mugs. Of beer.
Actually, since the Brewers are never on TV, it's hard to have any sort of perception of the park.
What else can I say? The trip begins in grand fashion … with a blowout loss. Eight-person bratwurst total: 21.
Wednesday, August 25
Fat Man (departing the game in disgust at the play of the hometown Milwaukee Brewers): "I've given up."
Mike D.: "Clearly."
-County Stadium General Admission Section
Spent the morning touring the Miller Brewing Company's headquarters. Tie for most fun: supplying inane answers to the tourguides canned presentation ("What is our most popular brand here at Miller?" "Pabst Blue Ribbon?"), or tasting beer at 11:30 a.m. We were offered Miller Lite ("Hey! I've never tried this before!"), Icehouse (a suitcase is just twelve bucks at Costco, you know-I brought one to R. Toker's 4th of July fete) and finally, the microbrew that the good people at MBC have tried to make their own, Leinenkugels-or, as a sleep-deprived Dan Ring called it, "Linux Doodle."
The best part about visiting County Stadium-unless you've time-travelled back to 1982, there's no concern about getting tickets in advance. Still, it's always good to make a quick call to make sure there wasn't some sort of uptick in attendance. So we did. Repeatedly. Among the most fun you can have in Milwaukee … calling the folks in Brewers' ticket sales with mock concern over the availability of tickets. "Hello? I'm calling to see if there are any seats available for this afternoon's matchup with the Dodgers." The best part is the dejection in their voice because they're 80 percent certain you're funning with them, but they can't tell you to fuck off, just in case you're being legitimate and maybe the call is being monitored for quality issues …
(Pause) "Yes, yes. We have tickets for this afternoon."
Big Brewers win. Jose Valentin hit a 308-ft. grand slam. Total group bratwurst count: 41 for eight of us after two games. And that doesn't include the three I get up and sneak during the sixth inning. The only impulse stronger than my need for junk food is my need to lie about how much of it I eat.
That evening, following a short hostage situation at the Open Pantry, near the hotel … allright, first the hostage situation. Ah, the joys of discount urban lodging. Post-tour, post-game, we felt the need for additional beer. As I waited in line to purchase our 12-pack of High Life, a scruffy looking, presumably homeless gentleman, in purchasing a bag of Ruffles-Lite cheddar chips, was a nickel short. The proprietor was not about to let him have the chips discounted. So the scruffy man became violent, tossing the forbidden snacks at the man and threatening to "beat his pussy ass." Then the proprietor closed himself within his glass cage (akin to Louie DePalma's cage on Taxi, according to Mike D.) and locked the front door. Scruffy man couldn't get out. Alas, neither could I, Doug, Mike D. and a young woman in a Korn T-Shirt. And me without my camera. After threatening to call the police, the proprietor finally acquiesced and let the scruffy man out. In retrospect, I could've given the scruffy man the nickel, but I was too shocked by the brouhaha … The next day, we returned to the store with my camcorder in an effort to recreate the scene. The cashier (a different man from the proprietor-evidently, only the fictitious Apu works 24-hour shifts) was confused when I asked him if we could recreate the scene.
That night, we learn about scotch egg: a hard-boiled egg, wrapped in sausage. We also met Tuffy Fitzgibbons, brother of the proprietor of Fitzgibbon's (or "Fitzbibbon's," as the bar's discount promotional pens read) who spent two hours watching us play a video golf game. In a similarly awkward situation to the Milwaukee cab driver the night before, he began to talk about how gays are taking too many liberties in today's world. Oh jeez. It's a game of inches.
Kicking It Old Style:
A Long Day's Journey Into Barbecue …
Thursday, August 26
I no longer fear death. For I survived a very rapid drive from Milwaukee to Chicago. Juliet, God love her, is an, ahem, adventurous driver. And it's one thing when she's driving her own car, a VW Golf. The Germans make a very responsive car. It's a Teutonic thing. The GMC Safari is not made by Germans. On many occasions, I felt as if the van's high center-of-gravity, coupled with the Andretti-like lane changes, were going to vault us end-over-end off of I-94 to our deaths. Maybe landing on suburban Milwaukee's Cheese Castle (into the world's largest wheel of gorgonzola) would've broken our fall.
Usually, in situations like that, I just take off my glasses and let life happen.
Wrigley Field is one of my holy places. As a recovering Catholic (who now and then returns to the fold out of fear of Jesus' retribution), my list doesn't include any churches. The list does include the Jefferson Memorial, the old Boston Garden (now a parking lot), the Smithsonian American History Museum, the old 9:30 club in Washington (where I once saw Camper Van Beethoven), Harry's Restaurant in Westborough ("home of the bottomless clam belly plate"), the Uptown Theatre in Washington, Fenway and Wrigley. And, as befitting a pilgrimage of this magnitude, we arrived plenty early.
Just in time to see Barry Bonds. Good naturedly, I used the approach I had used for my week of shooting group photos with random passers by … "Sir? Mind if I take a photo?" Usually the greeting, coupled with my look of genuine sincerity for a photo and a forced "aw-shucks" grin on my part, is enough to make the subject acquiesce and allow the snapshot to take place. Bonds, without looking at me or stopping, said, "Does it look like picture day?" Jackass. He also denied a kid an autograph. "Do I look like I have a free hand?" No, but it looks like you have ten fingers waiting for World Series rings, loser. Oh, he'll get his. He became the subject of much taunting throughout the day-"How much is too much, Barry?" and my favorite, "Your dad would've signed the autographs, Barry!"
I'd be doing the field a disservice by trying to describe why I love it so. So I won't. Just go there. Immediately.
We entered the park where the anti-Barry, Sammy Sosa, was holding court and signing autographs. After an extensive walk around the stands, we settled into our seats.
If my writing is disjointed from this point forward, it's because there's a big bratwurst remnant blocking the synopses I need to remember this day. That said, let me try …
I had my first of many Old Style beers. A great game ensued. Sammy smacked his 51st. I enjoyed a Wrigley Pig (process pork) sandwich. I believe Dan enjoyed two. We spotted a man in a unitard in the lower box. Then we chased him for a photo. I enjoyed seven more beers. We met a number of Massachusetts folks in the stands in front of us. Rod Beck made his final appearance in a Cubs uniform. No one knows it but they probably wouldn't have cared. I enjoyed a dog. Mickey Morandini roped a bottom-ninth single to win the game. The fans left happy. We went to the Cubby Bear and sweat and drink beer. Dan told a woman she's attractive. She told him he's annoying. Eventually, we caught up with two former co-workers, although I don't recall any specific exchanges I had with them. As is my way, I threatened violence on a man (although not to his face-I was drunk but a wussy pacifist at the same time) because at some barbecue joint I almost sat in his family's plate of ribs and he had the audacity to ask me to move on. Midwestern bastard. Then I ran into a childhood/adolescent acquaintance from Northborough, with some sort of troupe, dressed as a surgeon. Freaky. I'd almost insist it didn't happen if I didn't have the photos to prove it now.
More beer, more barbecue, and we returned to the hotel. Steve the bartender has passed out with his head under a nightstand. Drunk, I ordered "a large order of curly fries and a large order of … pizza."
We left Mike D's room before the food came. They called my room at 2:00 a.m. saying they had our food. I ignored the call.
Signs of Trouble: When Your City's People Mover Doesn't Move Any People
Friday, August 27
Detroit is deceptively far from Chicago. It's amazing, though, that after three days and 20 hours of driving, it no longer mattered.
Over the week, Doug had perfected a tremendous imitation of former Red Sox manager and Masshole Joe Morgan (not the TV commentator/one who beat the Sox in the '75 World Series; the snowplow-driving one who created "Morgan's Magic" and 1975 and successfully stared down Jim Rice when he pinch-hit Spike Owen for him in 1989). We wanted Joe Morgan to say everything¾stories about the trip, about baseball, about his favorite cereal. Hell, he could've read the tide charts out of the paper and we'd have thought it was hilarious. At the close of one of those GenX-y conversations where we discussed our favorite cereals growing up, Sean asked what Joe Morgan's favorite cereal was. "I … like … granola. Granola. Johnny Pesky slices the banana. Rob Murphy pours the milk and cleans up, because he's the closer." He even made his face look like Morgan's, with this completely blank, insipid sort of stare, the one that the erstwhile manager used that belied his ability to lead a moribund team to a division title. Or maybe it was just luck.
We had our first tiff of the trip (or at least the first I'm involved in) ¾after three hours of Dan's banter in the van, closing with him asking me questions about my sub-eating habits, I suggested we have some quiet time. Well, I was probably an asshole about it, in retrospect. Dan didn't talk for the next two hours. I felt bad.
Ah, Detroit, the city that time has tried to forget. We arrive at the Magestic (this entertainment complex where Juliet's cousin Teri works)¾which, in Dan's words, "ain't so majestic." It was actually pretty cool. Juliet and Teri hit some sort of art museum, while we leave for the hotel. We passed the Detroit monorail (inspiring a few verses of the Simpson's "monorail" song)¾rather, we passed the monorail station, high atop the cement track. Never did see the train or anyone using it. The whole damn loop can't be more than a mile long: if there actually were anywhere to go within the mile, wouldn't people walk? Ah, light rail, the best sign of early 1970's failed urban renewal.
Then the ballyard. The ballyard ain't so majestic, either. The rough-and-tumble neighborhood around it will probably wither and die once the life-support of 81 home crowds each year ceases in September. The concourses are crowded, dark and dirty. The smells are, well, smelly. I grabbed a few Labatts (Canada is only six miles away, you know) and headed to my seats before the claustrophobia sets in and I go mad. Which I don't like to do so far away from home.
My mother used to always tell us that when you went to a new church, you got to make three wishes. I had never heard that elsewhere and didn't know if it was true or just something to get us to stop complaining about having to go to church on vacation. So I've tried to institute a similar rule for visiting ballparks. Wish one: a no-hitter. That's never happened. Wish two: lacking a no-hitter, an 11-10 style slugfest. That happened in Chicago, but I had already been there, so it didn't count as a first-visit wish come true. Wish three: some cool local brew that I can try at a reasonable price that I can't get anywhere else. Got that at Wrigley my first time in 1998.
Anyway, I went oh-for-three in Detroit but man, I love the moment when you leave the chaos of the concourse and walk into the passage-way that leads you to your seats, particularly if you've never been to the park. And it was once again magic in Detroit. We were down in the lower deck, great seats not too far from the green field. Even had some characters in front of us¾two brothers (I presume) who had been coming since the early 1960's. I like to strike up the banter with the locals, although in this case I regretted it, as they continued to impinge upon my conversation throughout the evening.
Eventually, we went up to the upper deck, which was magic. A classic hometown win over the reeling Orioles. Later that night, Juliet and I headed out to the Magestic and met up with Teri. This wrestling-loving band, Bumpin' Uglies ("messed up music from some messed up fools in Chico, CA") were playing their set, which consisted of grungy heavy-metal covers and wrestling. It was surreal. The band would play, then these gentlemen would approach the stage and attack them with chairs, guitars, what have you. The evening ended with the singer, seemingly down for the count, eventually wobbling up and pushing one of the evil wrestlers onto a folding card table that had been lit afire. I kid you not-lighter fluid and all. The table collapses under the wrestlers weight, and the heroes kick into AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Cheap." Evidently, the first time they played the Magestic, Teri had no idea about their wrestling fetish and thought she was witnessing some randomized rock-and-roll violence. Hey, a fun fact: there are two Bumpin' Uglies. A nice band of Celtic 10,000 Maniacs-esque folk-rockers. And the freaks we saw. Anyway, visit their Website at http://www.nwlink.com/~piggy/. Please.
The Magestic has seen its share of cool bands over the years. Yo La Tengo. Supersuckers were coming. Teri mentioned that Boston's own Irish punkers, Dropkick Murphys, were coming later in the year.
Cleveland May Have the Automile of Nakedness,
But Pittsburgh Still Sucks
Saturday, August 28
"I see these people … all out in their cars, and it drives me bananas. When the black man drives by, he plays the rap. (Turns on Latvian pop music) I roll down my window and turn this up. (Gestures to imaginary driver) `Hey, this is my rap.'"
-Latvian Cab Driver Who Charged Us Forty Bucks to Get From the Flats to
Cleveland Airport's Budget Inn of America (a $25 value)
A word of advice: don't expect to roll into Cleveland on a weekend when both the Indians and new Browns are in action and expect to get a hotel room. On the approach from DRC (following a stop at a Big Boy, or "Fuckin' Big Boy," as Sean called it), Juliet started working the phones for a room-we also worked our way down the hotel chain food-chain. Hyatt. Nope. Westin. Nope. Marriott. Nope. Hampton Inn. Nope. Motel 6. Nope. Finally the good folks at Triple-A sent us to something called the "Budget Inn of America." It was near the airport. How bad could it be?
I have never been so frightened in my life. Walking into our smoking room (oddly enough, the place was packed and no non-smokings were available) I just knew that unspeakable things had happened in the room. Plus, I felt like I had chain-smoked a carton of Kools within 10 minutes. Oscar, our guide, gave us a lift to the commuter rail to get downtown. The hotel and the commuter rail were separated by the densest concentration of "adult" bars I had ever seen-and Oscar's litany, as we passed each, went something like this: "Nudie bar. Go-go bar. Nudie bar. Neighborhood bar." "Hey, what makes that a neighborhood bar?" "No one's naked in there." It was the "Automile of Nakedness," said Sean, capped off by what Oscar euphemistically referred to as a "Ladies' Bar"-you know, a "Lillith Fair Bar."
Going into the trip, I thought that there would be two self-evident truths: 1) I would not get sick of baseball and 2) Boston needs a new Fenway. Both were proven wrong. We were camped in the upper, upper right field deck at the Jake. The stadium has no soul. It's like what Green Day did for punk rock-it's fine if you want to buy punk music at the mall, but for anyone with a sense of history, it sucks. The fans weren't really into it, and neither were we. While there was no lack of kiosks and shops to buy Indians memorabilia, there was no soul. And no Bob Feller jerseys for sale. Save Fenway Park! You had the feeling that when the Indians start to suck again (and, it's all cyclical, so they will) that place will be as empty and lifeless as New Comiskey.
By the seventh inning, Mike D. and Steve had taken off, and we left for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Joined by Doug, I put on a tremendous display of eating ability. On the six-block walk to the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame, we each enjoyed five hot dogs. The people of Cleveland are hearty, and so it their love for tube steaks. Five dogs in six blocks. Five games in six days. Nice symmetry. On the way back, I purchased a "Cleveland Still Sucks" T-Shirt from a vendor, hoping it will buy me some equity with the locals … perhaps a free drink. No such luck. I will never wear that shirt again.
Quick follow-up: the Hall of Fame was overrated. The Flats were too. Cleveland native and Schwartz co-worker Paul Bugala warned me that the Flats were as meathead-laden as is Boston's own Quincy Market. And we chose to ignore him. And we ended the night playing pool in Jillian's. "Why didn't you just go to the damn Burlington Mall?"
That night, as the others played more pool, Juliet and I endured a seemingly endless taxi ride back to the Automile of Nudity with our zany Latvian driver. The Browns beat the Bears in their preseason matchup, which, given their results in recent weeks, will become more historic with each passing Sunday.
Sunday, August 29
Don't let anyone fool you. Cleveland is far from Boston. Hell, Cleveland is far from Erie, Pa., which you drive through on the way to Boston. Eleven hours later, we're home. And it signals a return to work … and a sausage-free diet. I joined Weight Watchers. Four weeks later, I've lost some of the bratwurst weight, but I haven't lost the memories, the abundance of T-shirts or the desire to see a ballgame in an old park in the daytime, on a weekday.
We went to Fenway about a week ago, all of us. We agreed the Wrigley was better.
In the meantime, I've learned that Milwakee's secret sauce is nothing but catsup and mustard mixed together. Genius.
The idea is that you never grow cold as long as you remember warmth, that you never become a jaded adult as long as you can revel in a youthful memory.
This afternoon, in the last home game in the last year of the century, that will be the idea. Wherever fans sit today, inside, outside, the expensive seats, the cheap seats, the porch or the street, they will be looking not only at the present, but at the past. And they'll be listening not just for the echoes of Tiger Stadium's history but for their own.
And that is how a city intertwines with a stadium, and that is why closing a stadium is not the same as closing a bank. Those echoes-your echoes -will be in there today, somewhere, in the mix of cheers, beers, a national anthem, an American League, a scoreboard, a pennant, a hot dog, a Coke, a two-run double, a bases-loaded strikeout, a kid with a glove, an old man with a scorecard, sausage grease, caramel corn, rusted girders, peeling paint.
-Mitch Albom, Detroit Free Press, 9/27/99
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