Going Home Again: Game 33 in Louisville

The side door to the basement in our first apartment.

Arriving in Louisville was like returning home.  Bonnie and I had met, courted, and married in Louisville while I was pursuing a graduate degree and she was beginning her teaching career.  Our first apartment had been near Cherokee Park, a lushly wooded haven that was leveled by one of the tornados that roared through the Ohio Valley in early April 1974.  Days before our first anniversary, we had seen one of the whirlwinds approaching our duplex, sought refuge in the basement, and narrowly escaped its wrath as it veered away from us less than a hundred yards away. 

Despite the terror associated with that destructive event, Louisville holds romance for us.  So it was especially gratifying that one of Bonnie’s bridesmaids, Trudi Fastenow Bellou, and her husband Glenn joined us for an afternoon of retracing old paths and watching the evening game.

The glove sculpture invites fans into its pocket.

In the years since Bonnie and I have moved away from Louisville, baseball has returned to the city and now garners quite a few accolades.  During our residency there, the old Louisville Colonels departed and the city was left without baseball for more than a decade.  Finally, a franchise returned, a new stadium was built, and enthusiasm resumed.  Three times during the last dozen years, the Louisville Bats' ballpark has received awards for being the best field in the Minor Leagues, and recently it appeared on a national list of the top ten ballparks to visit.  I understand why.  The facility is beautifully situated near the riverfront, and its architecture presents an enclosed entry that provides an energizing transition from the urban neighborhood.  It also features several interactive sculptures and memorials that heighten its appeal. 

The smiling cookie vendor.

The ballpark also distinguishes itself with the most unusual vendor whom I have encountered.  Several other ballparks have hawkers who bellow distinctly or sing playfully.  Others have peanut sellers who toss nut-bags with more accuracy than many minor league pitchers.  But none have a cookie saleswoman like Louisville’s.  With native grace and ease she carries her store in a basket balanced on her heads.  To make her display even more magnificent, she wears a smile that exudes deep joy.

In addition, the Bats also surpass most other stadiums and staff in the amenities provided to anthem performers.  Staff members escorted me to the family waiting room near the team locker rooms.  There, I could warm up discreetly and relax on the overstuffed chairs and sofa.   In the room, I felt like the anthem mattered as a significant part of the game preparation and production.

Edinson Volquez

In part because my participation was on Memorial Day weekend, I encountered my tour’s largest crowd by far: 11,641, a sell-out that exceeded two of the Major League games for which I have sung.  The fans had come to see the Bats (especially starting pitcher Edinson Volquez, who was on rehab assignment from the Cincinnati Reds), the Yankees’ AAA farm team from Scranton/Wilkes-Barre (which featured the Yankees’ top prospect—Jesus Montero—as well as several players who had been with New York during last season), and BirdZerk (the most entertaining baseball “mascot” since the San Diego Chicken). 

BirdZerk and Kevin Russo dancing at third base.

An independent, touring act making a special, scheduled appearance at the game, BirdZerk performs comic routines that remind me of the classic antics of Max Patkin, the Clown Prince of Baseball who enjoyed a cameo appearance in Bull Durham.  Before the bottom of the second inning one of BirdZerk’s wild skits featured Yankees’ infielder Kevin Russo, who seemed to hesitate before joining the energetic BirdZerk dancing around the left side of the diamond.  The routine required that Russo drop his glove near the bag so that he could mimic BirdZerk’s dance moves.  Stealthily, BirdZerk then angled toward the bag, picked up Russo’s glove, teased him with it, and holding it aloft took off on the grounds crew’s cart toward the left field corner.  As Russo watched the cart turn along the warning track, he saw BirdZerk heave the glove so far over the fence that it went out of the ballpark.  The crowd roared.  Russo acted dumbfounded and horrified, then called for a new glove to be brought from the dugout.  To make the act look unrehearsed, the equipment manager brought out two gloves, allowing Russo to select one to replace the glove confiscated and discarded by BirdZerk. 

BirdZerk and the ump dance together.

After the third inning another BirdZerk routine apparently involved the first base umpire, who had actually gone into the Yankees dugout to allow BirdZerk’s sidekick, dressed as an umpire, to take his place along the first base line.  This time, it seemed as though BirdZerk charmed the ump into a coordinated dance that ended with them twirling, legs interlocked, followed by the ump doing a flip and BirdZerk going berserk, lifting the ump and toting him into the dugout.  From there the real umpire, a few inches taller, emerged and resumed his duties of calling outs and fouls at first.

BabyZerk moons the crowd.

BirdZerk’s tomfoolery also included two other acts that featured his sidekick.  Together, they donned the costume of DogZerk and danced to the music “Who let the dogs out?”  And an inning later they duetted as BirdZerk and a new persona, BabyZerk, presenting a well-choreographed comic routine with BabyZerk mooning the crowd.

Shortly after I walked out to the home plate area, the Bats’ public address announcer introduced me as being from Whittier.  In response, a fan in the front row behind the backstop looked puzzled as I walked past and inquired, “California?”  Yes.  “What brings you this far away?”  We chatted about the anthem, baseball, and southern California.  Matt McColgan, the fan, had grown up in La Canada, less than an hour’s drive from Whittier, and he had played ball at UCSB with Chris Valaika, the Bats’ second baseman who had been a third-round draft pick in 2006.  Now living in the Tampa area, Matt had flown to Louisville for a long Memorial Day weekend and a reunion with his former teammate.

Following the anthem, several other fans and officials stopped me to express appreciation in various ways.  One woman was effusive: “Thank you for the anthem.  You did a beautiful job.  It was awesome.”  And Tom Slye, a Vietnam War veteran, excitedly inquired about my availability to join a barbershop group with him.  His invitation was flattering, for sure, but would require a wicked commute: so I declined.  And for the first time, off-duty police officers working the game stopped me—thankfully, not to cite me—to express their satisfaction with my rendition and project.  “We love baseball and luckily get to work all the games,” Sgt. Paul Neal related.  “We appreciate your efforts in singing the national anthem for the national pastime.  Baseball deserves the effort.”  He had played college ball and his partner, Sgt. Brian Stanfield, had played in high school.  Since they have heard hundreds of anthem renditions over the years and since they serve such a significant civic role day to day, I was greatly gratified by their expressions of appreciation.

The game matched the level of excitement provided by the large crowd.  After the Yankees scored in the first following a leadoff triple, the Bats used walks to claim the lead, which held up until the eighth when Ramiro Pena hit an upper deck homer to right for the Yankees.  His shot was matched in the bottom half of the inning by Daniel Dorn, who hit a towering, two-run shot just over the reach of the centerfielder.  And in the ninth, the Yankees tightened the score with a homer by Justin Maxwell, before loading the bases with one out.  With the tying run on third, the batter hit a shot up the middle.  Diving to his left, shortstop Kristopher Negron snared the short hop and, while prone, flipped the ball backhanded to Valaika, nipping the runner as Valaika pirouetted and made a strong relay to first to complete the double-play and end the game with a flourish.

Perhaps Thomas Wolfe lacked baseball when he opined that "You can't go home again."  Because baseball at home completes a circle.  On this fabulous evening, baseball had occasioned my return to Louisville, a place that I can genuinely call home even though no relative now resides there.  It was in Louisville that I had met and married Bonnie.  It was in Louisville that I began to sing seriously, turning avocational practices into vocational possibilities.  And it was in Louisville that I started to study the concept of civil religion, whose doxology is "The Star-Spangled Banner." 

Now Bonnie, baseball, and my singing the national anthem converged in Louisville, transporting me again to a place of contentment and security called home.

An Automotive Display: Game 32 in Bowling Green

Cars seem to be the red blood of Bowling Green, which lies just south of the Bluegrass region in Kentucky.  The Corvette factory in the city provides thousands of jobs for its residents, and the 'Vette museum, which was designed by the brother of good friend Grace Nakamura (an accomplished artist in Whittier), attracts tens of thousands of tourists each year.  In addition, the Bowling Green Hot Rods play in the Midwest League and attract unusually large crowds for A-Level teams.  On this Friday night, almost 4500 fans showed up at the ballpark for the game between the Hot Rods and the Lansing Lugnuts, a contest of mascots that could put the evening in overdrive!

Prior to the game I encountered a number of ballpark firsts on my tour: a give-away night, a legal disclaimer, a ceremonial cleaning of home plate, a musical and visual patriotic display preceding the anthem, and an emphasis on going green: How punny in Bowling Green! 

The green-grass, green seats in Bowling Green.

Before the gates opened a hundred or more fans lined up to be among the first 1000 entrants and to receive a T-shirt with the Hot Rods logo on the front and the names the four promotion sponsors on the back.  When the fans began to file into the ballpark, announcements on the public address system began, as usual, with a welcome to ballpark.  For the first time, however, I also heard a disclaimer about liability.  While other ballparks regularly warn fans with announcements and signs about the danger of balls and bats flying into the stands and possibly causing injury, the opening series of announcements at Bowling Green included a statement that fans assumed the risk of injury from events “incidental to baseball.”   

After warming up my voice in preparation to sing, I still had some congestion minutes before the anthem.  Hoping to clear my throat, I retrieved a water bottle from my satchel and unscrewed the cap.  As I did so, I squeezed the thin plastic and spewed water, narrowly missing me and Hot Rods’ hitting coach Manny Castillo. “Nervous?”  he inquired.  “No,” I replied.  “This is game number 32 this season.”  With that confident remark, I upped the ante for me to perform well.

Sweeping home as a toothbrush promotion.

The pre-game ceremonies featured the choreography not of young ballplayers running onto the field with the starting line-up for the Hot Rods.  Instead, a troupe of 25 girls from Dynamic Dance performed a routine that was followed by recognition of Special Olympians of Warren County.  The final steps in readying the field for play were a ceremonial cleaning of home plate with a large toothbrush sponsored by Destiny Dental, followed by eight participants tossing out first pitches.  After these live activities a short video paid tribute to the Armed Forces.  Accompanying images of American flags waving and Air Force jets flying, the voice of Ray Charles intoned, “America, America, God shed his grace on thee, and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.”  How could I follow that impressive rendition?  Now I was nervous! 

Since I knew that the recording of “America” was in a different key than I use for the anthem, I paused  longer than usual to get my pitch of D# and hum the descending chord.  All went well.  Coach Castillo said, “Good job,” as I walked past the dugout, and manager Brady Williams and pitcher Chris Rearick gestured approval.  In the stands, a Korean War vet sought me out and said, “Thank you.  I can tell you love to sing it.”  Indeed I do.

With his mother-in-law and wife, Eric joins me for the game.

I also love to share games with friends.  Joining me for this one was Eric Bain-Selbo, his wife, and her mother.  Eric is author of Game Day and God, a stimulating analysis of the religious significance of SEC football.  He is also the editor of The International Journal of Sports and Religion on whose advisory board I sit.  Throughout the game, we talked about our baseball experiences and about the connections between sports and religion, specifically analyzing how the national anthem functions as a consecrating rirtual for civil religion. 

While we enjoyed the heady conversation, we also enjoyed the game.  The Hot Rods narrowly escaped with a 5-4 win, in part because of a base-running blunder by the Lugnuts in the sixth inning.  Representing the potential tying run, K. C. Hobson got picked off third base for the third out on a throw by catcher Lucas Bailey.  You might say the wheels came off the Lugnuts' rally.  Although I hadn’t seen a runner picked off third in my first thirty games, I saw that play on consecutive nights.

A Legendary Evening: Game 31 in Lexington

The ballgame in Lexington, Kentucky proved legendary in multiple ways.  It took place in the heart of Bluegrass state with which I have indentified so closely for so long.  With family roots that extend back several generations, I attended Georgetown College only a tape-measure home-run’s distance away from Lexington.  During that time I also served for three years as the music and youth minister for the First Baptist Church in Mt. Sterling, which follows the opposite foul line thirty miles to the east.  And an equidistance south of Lexington is Berea, the arts and crafts capital of Kentucky.  There Bonnie and I enjoyed the best parts of our honeymoon at the Boone Tavern Inn, which is serviced by Berea College students.  We have returned to Berea every few years, making sure that we get a chance to sample the spoon bread in the Inn’s dining room while we drool over the fine wood and fiber crafts that make Berea so special.

The evening in Lexington took on legendary character also because of the severe weather that had attacked the region for the previous couple of days.  Thankfully, while thunderstorms and downpours continued to strafe nearby communities throughout the game, the field itself was spared the worst, experiencing only a light two-inning shower that did not interrupt play.

When I entered the ballpark, I passed Maris: Yes, that was her divine name, calling to mind one of my childhood favorites and the homerun record holder of pre-steroid days.  This Lexington Maris, however, was a young Legends’ fan who was distraught about the ineffectiveness of her ballpoint pen to imprint the communal autograph ball at the parking lot entry.  I stopped and handed her a Sharpie.  In her best five-and-a-half year-old penmanship, then, she proudly printed her name, added a smiley faced baseball, and said, “Now it’ll stay there!” Like her namesake’s accomplishment with 61 homers in ’61.

The Legends’ ballpark also featured a playful element on the foul poles.  Hanging on the screens in fair territory were ads for Chick-fil-A: “Eat more fowl.”  So if a ball hit the fowl foul pole, it would be fair!

Shortly before game time, friends from my undergraduate days arrived, followed soon thereafter by friends from Mt. Sterling.  Ken Rich had been my roommate freshman year at Georgetown College, and he and his wife Cheryl now live in Williamstown, about an hour’s drive north of Lexington.  Years ago, I had enjoyed singing in their wedding, and in years since we have tried to get together as often as either of us traveled toward the other’s home.

R.T. Sutton, Bonnie, Ken and Cheryl Rich, Dorothy and Robbie Sutton

From Mt. Sterling Dorothy Sutton and her adult children Anna Ray Martin and R.T. Sutton, along with his son Robbie, found me sitting at a bistro table near the home plate gate.  Anna Ray had been one of the lively students in the church’s high school group that I had directed, and R.T. had been a kindergartner when I had persuaded Dorothy to help chaperone a week-long youth trip to the church’s retreat and conference center in North Carolina.  I have always felt indebted to her for having assumed that leadership role, and we have kept in touch with Christmas cards and letters in the years since then.  Still, I hadn’t seen R.T. or Anna Ray in almost four decades.  And yet we share good, strong memories of those formative years, now rekindled by my singing for a Legends’ game.

As I took my place to face the crowd and sing, I saw a smiling and waving family in the box seats twelve rows directly in front of me.  There stood Laura Synkar and two of her children, Connie and Tommy Orme.  During my years at Mt. Sterling, Laura had served as the church secretary, and Connie and Tommy had sung in the youth choir and had participated in church activities, including the youth trip to North Carolina that Dorothy Sutton had helped to supervise.  Like the Suttons, I hadn’t seen them in years, and the deep delight in reconnecting with them intensified the already enjoyable gathering.

Norm and Laura Synkar, me, and Connie, with Tommy Orme standing behind us

Kent shows his VIP tickets to Bonnie.

Adding to the entourage of old Kentucky friends who joined Bonnie and me for the game was my former stellar student Kent Gilbert, now pastor of the Union Church in Berea.  Some time ago, Kent had marked the date on his calendar and in his typical, entrepreneurial way managed to synchronize multiple opportunities.  Earlier this spring, he had attended a fund-raising event for a school in Lexington, and in its auction he had bid on a VIP suite for a Lexington Legends game.  Making sure that he placed the winning bid, he then negotiated the night for my singing.  In that way he made sure that a church obligation wouldn’t conflict with the game by hosting church members for an outing to the game. 

Cheryl and Ken Rich join Kent, Bonnie, and Kent's church group in the sky box.

With so many friends from so many nearby cities converging for the game, the Lexington evening took on a legendary character.   Feeling buoyed by their presence, I sang the anthem with more enthusiasm and confidence than usual.  And when I left the field and handed the microphone to Stephanie Fish, the Legends’ staff member in charge of anthem coordination, I asked her if there had been any distinct anthem performances this year.  Quickly and briefly, she replied, “Yours.”      

The game itself featured an early inning outburst by the Lexington Legends, only to see to Braves knot the game 7-7 in the seventh.  Even so, Lexington reignited its offense and tallied three in the eighth while their second baseman Delino DeShields, Jr.—himself a baseball legacy of sorts since his father had been a Major League All-Star—completed a legendarily frustrating game on the base-paths.  After walking in the second, he was thrown out at third by Rome’s left fielder as he tried to advance on a single by a teammate.  In the sixth he struck out into a double-play when the Rome catcher nailed his teammate at second.  And after singling to fuel the rally in the eighth, he strayed a bit too far down the line and got picked off third by the Legends’ catcher, curtailed the Legends' rally.

Although there were no monstrous homeruns, no record strikeouts, or no triple plays, the game and evening, enjoyed with so many friends from diverse communities, are marked as legendary in my mind.

Unnatural: A missed opportunity in NW Arkansas

Sooner or later, it was bound to happen.  The only surprise was when and how the convergence occurred to cancel my singing at a game. 

Late last fall I re-contacted willing teams and proposed specific dates for me to sing the anthem.  Amazingly, most accepted my proposed schedule.  The Northwest Naturals in Springdale, Arkansas, were among the teams that confirmed a date; and so my routing through Arkansas and eastern Oklahoma got set.  Throughout the winter and spring I followed up with emails, seeking to re-confirm the schedule and to secure game-day instructions.  Repeated attempts to contact the scheduler for the Naturals proved futile, although not one of my emails was rejected or returned.  That communication gap had occurred with a few other teams as well.  While I still anticipated singing there on the evening after Tulsa, I was naturally apprehensive about the possibilities of performance. 

In preparation for singing for the Naturals, we had found an RV site in Springdale and had set up camp there on the day following the game in Little Rock.  The relative proximity to Tulsa allowed us to drive Toad to Oklahoma and spend a night in a hotel, anticipating a return to Springdale the following day in time for the evening’s game at Arvest Ballpark.

At dawn on the morning of my anticipated date with the Naturals, I sent an email to the team’s general manager, whom I had initially contacted last summer, and I indicated that I had not received word from the staffer whom I identified.  I expressed concern about whether there were complications since I noted that now the staffer’s name no longer appeared on the team’s office contact list.  Still no reply.

Shortly before noon, I called another staffer whose title seemed similar to that of the absent scheduling staffer.  Somewhat flustered, she informed me that the original scheduler no longer worked for the Naturals and that, as the new scheduler, she had been unaware of the previous commitment or my project until her receipt of the forwarded email from the GM an hour earlier.  In the meantime, she had gone to the AnthemTour website and checked out the legitimacy of my project and the specificity of my schedule. 

While she let me know that a group of 400 school children would be attending the game and their choir performing the anthem that evening, she graciously offered to let me sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the seventh inning stretch.  But since my project focuses on the anthem itself and not merely singing at different stadiums, I declined her invitation.  So Bonnie and I decided to remain in the security of the Tulsa hotel one more night while violent storms were predicted for the entire region.

And that night, for the first time all season, my “scheduled” game was cancelled because of rain.

After rain cancelled the game, the tarp still covers the field at Arvest Park the following day.

And the award goes to . . .: Game 30 in Tulsa

Bonnie is OK at the OneOK in Tulsa, OK.

If I were giving out the ESPY Awards for sports performances, I’d surely make one go to the Tulsa Drillers for several reasons.  For one thing, they display an ESPY every night during their games: Their manager is Cecil Espy.  For another, for the first time the introduction of me performing the anthem not only included information about my tour and book project, it also mentioned that I am accompanied by my wife Bonnie.  Indeed, she deserves mention since she’ll be attending more than three-fourths of the games when I sing.  That’s probably a Minor League record for spousal attendance at ballparks in a single season.  When David Lamb (A Stolen Season), Ernest Green (The Diamonds of Dixie), and Cass Sapir (who attempted to see games in all 189 professional ballparks) made their season-long tours through Minor League cities and ballparks, they did so alone.  While at least two couples are tallying all professional ballparks over several years, I’d bet that Bonnie will hold the spouse's single season record.  At the very least Bonnie wins an award for joining me on this jaunt, and the Drillers should win an ESPY for recognizing her.

The Drillers also should win ESPYs for a few other reasons, highlighted by the distinction of featuring the wildest promotion thus far, wilder even than Cowboy Monkey whose routine is rehearsed.  On this “Country Night” in Tulsa, which was sponsored by two radio stations and which encouraged Drillers’ staffers to dress in country “get-up,” a between-innings competition featured an armadillo race.  Three fans wearing thick gloves tried to cajole the critters to run the length of an Oklahoma roadway’s width to win the race. 

Ready, set, go....

The veering armadillos about to be netted.

If you’ve ever seen the armadillo road-kill on and beside the highways in this region of the country, you’d understand why the road width would be a good distance goal.  Two of the critters were named Speedy and ArmaDriller.  As one of the armadillos started to veer and reverse course, the Drillers’ staff corralled it with fishing nets.  I had hoped to see them try to rope it with little lassos!

Speedy prefers water for winning, not champagne.

A few other fan activities distinguish the Drillers’ operation.  To increase the opportunities for children to participate in the pre-game activities, the Drillers also create a “high-five corridor” through which the starting players run—and slap hands with the kids—on the way to their field positions.  On this night a Little League team of Braves enjoyed the hand-slapping routine.  About a half-hour later, one of the little Braves caught a pop foul in his glove and again got high fives, this time from exuberant teammates who shared in his success.

The Braves hand-slap the Drillers starters.

During the seventh-inning stretch, all of the fans get to sing long and loud.  Following the most accelerated rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” that I have ever heard, they fervently join in singing “Oklahoma.” 

Before the game while I waited behind home plate, Justin Gorski, the Drillers Assistant Manager of Promotions, and I talked about the enthusiasm that had been generated by the open auditions that the team held for anthem performances.  Last year, the first for the Drillers’ musical try-outs, more than 130 individuals and groups showed up, taking all day to compete for the few dozen dates available.  This year, the team limited try-outs to the first 100 performers.  Even so, individuals started lining up in the parking lot at 6:00 a.m., three hours before the competition for the weekend home dates began.  On week nights, the Drillers usually play a recording of the anthem.  I was fortunate that Mike Tarranto, the Director of Promotions, booked me for a Thursday night and that Justin made the effort to write the kind, inclusive introduction. 

The only downer for the Drillers was that Salvador Perez, the catcher on the visiting Naturals from Northwest Arkansas, drilled a two-run homer while Tulsa was held to a three harmless hits, sort of like the straying armadillos. 

Traveling to the Travelers: Game 29 in Arkansas

Since the route from Memphis to Little Rock was one of our shortest day’s drives, we were able to dock Arby several hours before game time.  Just a half-mile from Dickey-Stephens Park, our site overlooked the Arkansas River, which, thankfully unlike most of rivers that we had crossed earlier in the day, was not flooding.  Our early arrival also permitted an afternoon of sightseeing in Little Rock. 

Bonnie sits in the President's chair at the Cabinet table.

Seeing the Clinton Presidential Library on the opposite banks of the river, we seized the opportunity to spend the afternoon interacting with the exhibits there. Inspired by the stories about Bill Clinton’s empathy for the poor and dispossessed, his advocacy for civil rights legislation and practice, and his success in economic development that produced budgetary surpluses during his terms in office, I was primed to sing the anthem for the Arkansas Travelers’ game against the Springfield Cardinals.

At various times in its history, the Travelers have barely survived in the area.  Several decades ago when the team was in danger of folding, fans and local investors purchased shares in the team to preserve its identity with Little Rock.  And a few years ago when the team’s former ballpark for almost 75 years began to deteriorate, Warren Stephens, a Little Rock financier, donated 11 acres of riverfront property in North Little Rock for the site of a new ballpark, which was completed in time for the season opener in 2007.  The ballpark was named in honor of the co-founding brothers of Stephens, Inc., an independent financial service that employed Hall of Fame catcher Bill Dickey and his brother Skeeter, also a Major League player.  Before starring for the Yankees, Bill had played the 1925 season for the Travelers, and following their baseball careers both Dickeys worked for Stephens.

At the entry to the Dickey-Stephens Park, I had Bonnie take a photo of me with the plaque paying tribute to Bill Dickey, a Hall of Fame catcher for the Yankees during the 30s and 40s.  I have a fond place in my heart for Dickey, not merely because he played with Ruth and Gehrig.  In 1964 or 65, I responded to a classified ad in The Sporting News that offered a mimeographed list of current and former Major League players home addresses.  When I received the pages of data, I decided to start an autograph collection by writing to the Hall of Famers whose names appeared on the list.  With slow typing skills, I pecked out brief letters to each, requesting that they sign the blank side of an index card that I enclosed and that they identify a career highlight on the opposite, ligned side.  Bill Dickey was among about 20 who responded, not only signing the index card and citing his career with the Yankees as the highlight, but also enclosing an autographed postcard of his Hall of Fame plaque.

Building on my childhood appreciation for Yogi Berra, Dickey’s gracious gesture generated a fondness for Yankees’ catchers; and I have followed them closely ever since: Elston Howard, Thurman Munson, Rick Cerrone, Jorge Posada.  And now while focusing on the Minor Leagues during this season, I am tracking the progress of their probable successor, Yankees’ top prospect Jesus Montero. (It’s tempting not to pun that Jesus might be the savior of the Yankees’ All-Star catching continuity!)

Before getting mired too deeply in my memory and fandom, let’s trek back to the Travelers’ game against the Springfield Cardinals by noting that the Arkansas catcher, Orlando Mercado, duplicates a practice of Posada, painting his fingernails white to improve the pitcher’s perception of the signals for a pitch's placement and speed. 

Even though Dickey-Phillips is among the newest ballparks, it is the site of one of the most tragic events in baseball history—an extremely rare on-field death by a player or coach.  In the inaugural season of the ballpark, new hitting coach Mike Coolbaugh of the visiting Tulsa Drillers stood in the coach’s box along the first base line in the ninth inning.  Coolbaugh, who had played in the Major Leagues for 44 games with the Brewers and Cardinals five years before, had joined the Drillers as their hitting coach three weeks earlier.  With Tulsa behind by four runs, Coolbaugh focused his attention on the Drillers' base-runner who had lead off the inning with a single.  Then Tino Sanchez, the back-up switch-hitting catcher for the Travelers, lined a shot that felled Coolbaugh, who died moments later despite CPR efforts.  Coolbaugh’s story is narrated in the award-winning book Heart of the Game: Life, Death, and Mercy in Minor League America by S. L. Price (regrettably, not one of my relatives).  With elegant prose and a keen baseball eye, Price sensitively interlaces the stories of the careers and family commitments of Coolbaugh and Sanchez while providing a portrait of Minor League life throughout the country.

The first base coach's box is shrouded by shadows.

As I walked near the first base dugout while waiting for the pre-game ceremonies to begin, I thought compassionately of Coolbaugh and prayed for his family, the Tulsa and Arkansas players, and the Travelers' staff members who had been on duty that night. 

Mudcats' players calling for a ball.

In contrast to the mournful thoughts of Coolbaugh that the field evoked, I deeply enjoyed seeing the children at the ballpark.  With particularly delight, I watched the players on the Mudcats, a youth team that participated in the pre-game ceremonies, have a good time catching souvenir balls tossed to them by one of the Travelers, and later it was quite fun to see them get such a charge out of securing the signature of Shelly, the Travelers’ oil-company sponsored mascot. 

Mudcats' players getting Shelly's autograph.

Trey Trimble with his playlist.

A pleasant tone for the evening was also set by live, pre-game organ music, a first among the ballparks on my tour.  Young Trey Trimble sat at a console on the concourse behind home plate.  Having learned of the position as Travelers' organist through an ad for the job, Trey auditioned well, got hired, and now played exuberantly from a list of titles that he had drawn up to set the mood for the games. 

Yet the cheerful children and joyful music could not produce a hometown victory on this night.  For this 29th game on my tour, the Travelers scored three in the first but yielded six two-out runs in the second inning to the Cardinals, who held on to beat Arkansas 9-7 in a 29-hit slugfest.

Fathers and Sons: Game 28 in Memphis

For the first time in more than 25 games, I had to pay for parking near the ballpark in Memphis where private lots and parking garages surround the stadium. In similar instances at inner city ballparks, like the one in Bradenton, Florida, I had persuaded the restricted lot attendant to let me park among the staff and players’ spaces.  While I hoped for similar good fortune in Memphis, I couldn’t find its entry to the small lot of controlled parking.  So Bonnie and I pulled Toad into a garage adjacent to Rendevous, the Memphis barbecue restaurant that had been highly recommended to us. It was alive with excitement, and we could savor the ribs and pork from the aromas alone. But alas, it was Monday—a day when the place is closed, often for private parties!

The view toward the left field corner and the urban landscape beyond the ballpark's walls.

One of the reasons for the parking issues at the Redbirds' ballpark was that it is the most urban of any of the stadiums that we have seen.  Even so, the entry gates are enhanced by a diptych sculpture whose "hinge" is sixty feet and six inches of space between the pieces: A pitcher and catcher, with backstop covered by a baseball-cap canopy, draw fans in from the street to the concourse.

As usual, the participants in pre-game ceremonies gather at an appointed spot—often the Fan Assistance booth—before being escorted to the field.  When I arrived at the designated place, I met Richard Farrell who was carrying an antique glove and a paperback book about a ballplayer.  Richard was scheduled to throw out the first pitch for Greek Night at the ballpark.  One of the Memphis players—first baseman Nick Stavinoha, who is Greek—later received the loudest ovation each time he stepped into the batter’s box.

Although Richard was not of Greek heritage, his wife was.   While I wondered if his acceptance and integration into the Greek community resembled the transitions of Ian Miller portrayed in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Richard and I talked baseball more than local Greek culture.  I learned that a choir from the Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church, which had sponsored the Memphis Greek Festival a week earlier, was scheduled to sing the national anthem, the one for Greece.  Whew!  I was still on tap to sing “The Star Spangled Banner.”  By game time, however, the choir had decided not to perform for the baseball crowd.               

Richard’s old glove and book about the ballplayer played significant roles in his enthusiasm.  The glove had belonged to his father, Doc Farrell, the second baseman for the 1932 Yankees who beat the Cubs in the World Series that fall.  Stubby and flat, the old mitt required the use of two hands for grabbing and securing ground balls.  It’s doubtful whether an announcer would have used a verb like “snagged” to describe a diving catch of a line drive since the web of the glove was shallow and barely flexible.  The glove epitomized the paternal bond celebrated in Donald Hall’s panegyric to baseball and its familial bonding—Fathers Playing Catch with Sons.

Richard displays his father's glove.

Doc Farrell in Yankees' uniform.

The book that Richard carried was a biography written about his father who was unusual because during his career Doc had been a teammate with more than twenty Hall of Fame players—headlined, of course by Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.  Doc had gotten his nickname because in the off-season he practiced dentistry. Inordinately proud of his father, Richard was sharing the moment with his own son, Matthew, a baseball player for Christian Brothers High School.  In a sense they also reversed the mentoring role honored by Hall’s book title since Matt was tutoring his father about how to hold and release the ball.  As Richard took the mound to toss out the first pitch a short time later, he held high the glove, a trophy from and about his father.

His huge smile was almost as wide as the pitch he threw to the plate.  His control contrasted sharply with that of the Fresno Grizzlies starter Doug Mathis, who held the Redbirds hitless through his six innings.  Finally getting hits off relievers in the eighth, Memphis scored four times in the frame, piecing together three singles, a walk, and a two-run, game-tying double by Stavinoha.  Opah!  Greek night scores!  And so did the Redbirds, who almost two hours later tallied the winning run in the fourteenth.





Joe receives blessing from a Cardinal.