Dead Religions

And now we turn north.

Much of my kids’ school was in attendance of the 66er game the other night as the choir sang the national anthem. My boy snagged a foul ball on a food run with my wife. The boy was pretty excited to show his friends his foul ball, but he was more amped to tell the story about how the foul ball almost killed an old man. I really haven’t put the particulars of that one together yet— I just know it doesn’t include the zombies from Call of Duty: Black Ops, which dominate most of his stories these days.

After about his fifth re-telling of the foul ball story, this went down:

Parent: You sure like to tell stories, don’t you?
LB (without pausing): Yeah, I am a real chatterbox —- but they are all true though!
Parent: Well, you have good stories—-
LB: You should hear the ones my dad has! One time, my mom had to pretend to be Uncle Kenneth’s husband so he wouldn’t get arrested. He ran out on the field in the rain and did all these funny poses, and my mom told the cops, “Please, please, don’t arrest him. He’s my husband, and we have to go back to California to our kids.”

The eyes of all the parents in out section immediately focused on my wife and I. “Yeah, it’s true,” I said with a “what are you going to do shrug.” Some parents laughed while some scowled. A couple dad’s gave me the look that let me know they fully understood.

LB: Hey, wanna hear the story when I tried to tackled the cop?
Mom: Patrick, stop! NOW.
A couple other highlights:

LB: Dad, can I go with my friends down to pavillion to try to catch more foul balls?
Me (half jokingly): Yeah, but don’t do anything to make security mad.
LB: Don’t worry. We have codes. They won’t figure it out until it’s too late.
Me : Figure what out?
LB: Uh…. Nothing, don’t worry about it. We won’t go. Can we get some ice cream?

During the third inning, a giant Dick’s Sporting Goods’ ad flashed on the scoredboard. The ad was just “Dick’s” in huge letters. This sent LB and his second grade friends into a tizzy.

Me: What’s so funny?
LB: Dick’s! On the scoreboard!
Me: What so funny about that?
LB (raising an eyebrow): Oh, Dad, I think you know. Look how big that Dicks is!

Between halves of the sixth inning, ZZ Top’s Sharp Dressed Man began blasting over the loud speakers. Suddenly, my boy explodes out of the tunnel, racing down the aisle. His eyes are wide with a combination of wonder, fear, and pure adrenaline rush. The half grin on his wild face can only indicate one thing: my boy is being chased by some sort of authorty figure. Sure enough, a fat security dude comes out of the tunnel. A little bit later:

Security Officer: Tell you dad what you were doing!
LB (trying to look remorseful): I was peeing in the bush.
Me: Why didn’t you go to the restroom?
LB: Mom says they are full of pervs.
Mom: We need to go. NOW.

The Cleveland Indians inched closer to their season goal of ninety losses Wednesday in Chicago, losing 10-6 to their division rival, the White Sox. Skipper Manny Acta was upbeat after the game, saying, “Hot Damn! We are in mid-season form. We normally don’t play like this until our GM trades our best players for dubious prospects. Whenever you lose when your ace is pitching, well, that is a good day. Of course, we really don’t have an ace, but we’ve lost twice already with Masterson pitching, and we can build on that. This team is going to be special.”

Former Tribe legend Kosuke Fukudome kept alive his quest to hit .400 this, picking up a hit to keep his batting average at .400. “I’m not really concerned about my individual stats,” said Fukudome. “I’m just glad I am outta there.”

Cleveland Indians closer Chris Perez blew his first save on Opening Day, pushing his 2012 ERA to a nice, round 40.50. “It felt good to disappoint those fans,” said a jubilant Perez after the game. “Squashing hope is what I do best. The fact my performance eventually drained the pen on the first day of the season was the cherry on top of my dung sundae.”

Tactical genius Manny Acta chose to leave newly acquired reliever Jairo Asencio in for three innings so he could eventually give up a three run jack to J.P. Arencibia. “It’s a long season,” said Acta. I need to save the rest of my pen for a rainy day. We have a game on Saturday, and my unused relievers have an early tee time tomorrow out in Quail Hollow. Besides, how long is a guy named Jairo going to stick around in this town?”

“Lots of crap went on that night.” — Notsam2

Having firm control of the music in the car is imperative for a successful Cactus League trip. Otherwise, you might get stuck listening to Night Ranger’s Dawn Patrol as you zip across the desert, which can radically change the dynamics of a routine traffic stop.

CHP: Do you know how fast your were going?

Driver: Yes. Sorry about that. This is a fine peice of German engineering, and sometimes I don’t feel how fast I am going.

CHP: Sir, you are driving a Lexus.

Driver (pause): I would like to report a stolen car.

Occupants of the car (in unison): Summer kisses never last through September/I thought you’d understand/That holding hands ain’t exclusive to lovers/Guess it was part of your plan

Things might have gone down differently if Making Movies were on the stereo:

CHP: Do you know how fast your were going?

Driver: Yes. Sorry about that. This is a fine peice of German engineering, and sometimes I don’t feel how fast I am going.

CHP: Sir, you are driving a Lexus.

Driver (pause): I would like to report a stolen car.

Occupants of the car (in unison): She gets rock n roll, from the rock n roll station/In a rock n roll dream/She’s making movies on location/She don’t know what it means

One of the most important guidelines of a successful Cactus League is not to be asked to leave a sold out game because you can’t buy tickets for re-admission. Another important guideline is not to leave the damn tickets of a sold out game in a hotel room across town. While we followed the first guideline this past weekend, someone didn’t get the memo of the second guideline, and we found ourselves in the parking lot of Camelback Ranch Saturday night for the Giants/Dodgers game without tickets.

A half empty glass guy would have despaired; a half full glass guy would have suggested we just go to a bar for St. Patrick’s Day to watch the NCAA tournament. but the Cactus League veteran says, “We are going to Peoria to see the Padres. They never sell out night games, plus there is a Tilted Kilt across the street from the game.”

A wicked storm was moving in Saturday night, which always works Cactus League pilgrims into a frenzy. The chance of no games on Sunday adds a certain intensity as many pilgrims realize this could be their last Cactus League game, which means alcohol consumption spikes. Since this Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day, a hard rain indeed was about to fall.

Things quickly entered bizarre territory in the third inning when a very large beer vendor began pointing his meaty index finger at me while repeating, “You! You! You!” Seems I had a past history with this bloke, and for the life of me, I could not remember ever meeting this guy’s acquaintance. Upon further reflection, he could have been the beer vendor from Maryvale years ago who fancied himself a comedian, but the details of that nonsense are rather fuzzy.

Anyway, this beer vendor was very upset with me and refused to serve me, so I politely told him to move along. He did not. After exchanging further pleasantries, security arrived. In a Cactus League first for me, the beer vendor was escorted away, not someone from my party. I still have no firm idea what that was all about.

Another thing I would have never thought would happen to me at a Cactus League game: a young man with Downs Syndrome yelled at me that night for being Un-American for not standing up during “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” All things considered, I think I handled it very well.

Things needed to be considered:

1. I hate the seventh inning stretch and that fat #### President Taft who begat it
2. I hate the way God Bless America renditions have made the seventh inning stretch some sort of patriotic duty
3. The young man’s older brother was itching for a fight and had already been lovingly educated by my crew for running his ignorant mouth.

Things might have gone south very quickly, but I jumped up and executed an Irish jig (it was St Patrick’s Day) to the delight of everyone. Situation defused.

The hottest selling T-shirt at the Indians’ gift shop on Saturday was a T-shirt commemorating 10 Cent Beer Night in 1974. Part of me winced, knowing the Indians really don’t have anything else to celebrate since 1948. Another part of me bought it.

Oral tradition is the driving force of Cactus League pilgrimages. People don’t trek across the country to watch exhibition games; they want to share past experiences with other baseball fans. It was great being able to tell my kids stories of past Cactus League adventures.

Me: One time time it rained, and they put a tarp on the field. Uncle Kenneth decided that it looked a giant Slip and Slide.
My Boy: Oh man, that would be great! But that about the police?
Me: They were all under the roof, trying to stay dry, so Uncle Kenneth hopped the fence, ran onto the field, and slid into second.
My Boy: Did the cops get him then?
Me: No, he could have gotten away, but people started cheering, so he did it again and waved. More people cheered, so he did it again. He started making funny poses and wouldn’t come out of the rain.
My boy: Did the cops get him then?
Me: Yeah Mommy had to pretend to be Uncle Kenneth’s wife and beg the police not to arrest Uncle Kenneth.
My Boy: Where was Aunt Molly?
Me: He hadn’t met her yet.
My Girl: Was alcohol involved?

Me: See this parking lot? Once after a game, Uncle Kenneth and Uncle Eric deded to have a race. It was real close until Uncle Eric wiped out right over there and ended up doing two somersaults before he came to a stop. He lost most of the skin on his left arm.
My girl: Let me guess. Alcohol was involved.

I forgot to mention I was wearing the 10 Cent Beer Night shirt when I was pulled over.

The Indians are also obviouls phasing out Chief Wahoo—- most of the gear in the gift shop is sans that little guy. This is long overdue—not because of the politically correct, racial stereotype stuff, but because that little fucker is a loser, and that smile of his is just him laughing at my pain. Hello? The Indians lost. Didn’t everyone see The Last of the Mohicans? The Indians indigenous to the land around Cleveland were wiped out by other Indians in various acts of genocide. The baseball team hasn’t won squat since Wahoo made the scene. It is time for Wahoo to go.

Now that the Reds are in the Cactus League, the Cubs’ fans reign on the PMF (Pastey Mother Fuckers) Title could be coming to a close. There isn’t much scarier than seeing a white whale whose flesh hasn’t seen the sun since Carter was President stepping out in a Joey Votto tank top with a Montgomery Inn barbecue sauce bottle in one hand and a tray full of brats in the other (they sell the Montgomery Inn sauce in the gift shop, along with Berman’s Cleveland Stadium Mustard). Her husband looked the same, except his pasty back was dotted with splotches of hair. Any buffet style restaurant on the west side of Phoenix is in grave danger. Fortunately, Reds fans don’t travel well yet to Arizona.

Surprise, Arizona is one bizarre place—an odd combination of affluent white trash, blue hairs, and a very, very small slice of old time cowboy. Despite the bursting of the housing bubble, the city appears to be growing. However, the people who live there seem to have a definite chip on their shoulder as if they realize their destination isn’t all they thought it would be, and there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it now. The Rangers and the Royals play there, but we didn’t see a game there this time. We did take a detour their to visit my aunt after the Indians game on Saturday, and I almost had a mishap the gas mart with a Dunkin Donuts. I don’t know why there are so many bikers in that town—I guess they take Bell Road out into the wild desert and do what bikers do in the wild desert. I was trying to find a barber shop before they all closed, so I was flying solo while my aunt was entertaining my traveling companions. Anyway, nothing really happened but an odd stare down that I still don’t understand, but had I not stopped for coffee (and a case of beer), I would have made it to a barber, and who knows how Sunday morning might have played out.

I only mention Surprise as a jarring contrast for Scottsdale, which now has two Cactus League stadiums. THe one where the Giants play is the best stadium in the Cactus League, despite the fact that it is full of Giants’ fans. Best food, best atmosphere, best access to copious amounts of booze (there is a full tiki bar in the CF lawn), best access to bars/restaurants after the game, etc. The new stadium, Salt River Park (where we went yesterday), is architecturally wonderful, but it has the feel of everything that has gone wrong with the Cactus League, probably because you can’t walk fifteen feet without feeling the Corporate Dildo probing your sphincter. I understand that Spring Training is now a business, and I don’t really have a problem with owners trying to milk the Cactus League teat for all that its worth. I am not sitting in the shade, screaming at Pespi, Coors Light, Miller, etc to get their sponsored pavillions off my lawn. However, give me some space to breathe without thrusting your product in my face.

The problem bigger than the corporate influence though is the local help acting like a Cactus League game is a rock concert. Scottsdale motorcycle cops, decked out in full Power Ranger body armor, stopped traffic on major thoroughfares so their counterparts could whisk the opposing team bus to the stadium. The Nazi parking lot attendants do get people parked quickly, so they aren’t all bad, but me pulling into that space by that pole rather than over there by the tree is not a matter of life and death, so chill; I have had an eventful morning, and I am not about to take your #### (I guess one of them will be walking funny for a week or so because he made the mistake of annoying my wife. I didn’t get to see that because I was already in the Coors’ Light Cold Zone). Before the wives and kids made it in the stadium, we were interrupted four times to be asked four times by stadium representatives if we were having a good time. (Hint: if baseball fans are drinking beer and engaged in a robust discussion about two guys who don’t play anymore, they are having a grand time and don’t need to be interrupted.) After the second interuption, we got a bit chippy.

Help (smarlty dressed in crisp polo shirt): Are you gentleman finding everything to your liking?
Friend #1: That Coldstone Creamery kiosk is making things too chilly. Could you move it?
Help: I don’t think so, Sir.
Friend #2: Just move the Island Noodle kiosk next to it and let the Yaki-Soba fight it out with the smoothies.
Help: We can’t do that.
Friend #1 Could you just ask for us?
Help: Sir, I know what the answer will be. The—
Me (interrupting): Then do you know who, if not for injuries, would have been a more likely HOFer—- Eric Chavez or Troy Glaus?

And so it went, throughout the day.

Sunday Morning At The Cactus League:

Scottsdale PD: License and Registration, please.
Me: How fast was I going, Officer?
SPD: Are those whiskeys you people have? I smell whiskey.
Me: It’s okay. They aren’t Hiram Walker products, just Crown and sodas.
SPD: How many open containers are in this car?
Me: None of them are mine.
SPD: It is nine-thirty in the morning! How many open containers do you people have?
Me: They are not really germane to how fast I was going. We are on our way to the game and are in a hurry. I have to find a barber.
SPD: The game isn’t for hours!
Me: We need to get to get to the bar to get our heads right, and I have to find a barber.
SPD: You can’t drink in a car in Arizona.
Me: That is why we are going to a bar. The Blue Moose is calling!
Entire car (along Brian Fallon on the radio): I still love Tom Petty songs/And driving old men crazy/And all while Little Lita is waiting/So you sing me slow songs darlin’/I’ll drive you crazy
SPD: What is wrong with you people!
Me: We are throwbacks to a simpler time before Corporate America got its hooks into Spring Training. We need to get to the game, and I need to find a barber.
SPD (now shouting): You aren’t going anywhere. There are three open containers in the car!
Me (waving my fingers): These aren’t the open containers you are looking for. How fast was I going?
SPD (still shouting): I pulled you over for an illegal U-Turn!
Me: Oh, I suppose I am guilty of that. How much will that be? Can we clear it up now? We have a game to go to.
SPD: An open container is a $750 dollar fine in Arizona.
Me: Really? Wow, that is steep. I guess these guys are ###### unless you let them slide. Whatta you say? That seems like a lot of paperwork.
SPD: Why would I let them slide? You guys are going to be a mess after the game.
Me: Look, this isn’t our first time here. We aren’t driving after the game. Our wives are meeting us there and driving us back home. They are headed to the pool soon with the kids.
SPD: How do I know that?
Me: Would you like to call my wife? She is kind of pissed at me for the whole hair thing Friday night (I take my hat off and show him my half shaved head). I was supposed to take care of it yesterday.
SPD: (just stares at my head)
Me: Is there a Fantastic Sams or Good Cuts nearby? A simple barber shop will do. What time do they open?
SPD: (still just staring)
Me: I know—it looks terrible, which is why I have to get to a barber.
SPD: What happened to your hair?
Me: We have rule when we come to the Cactus League. Anyone who pukes up a shot has to shave his head. One of these asshats tried to slip me something with Jager in it. It wasn’t really even a puke; more like a gag reflex that came up my nose. I lost the appeal though. (lowering my voice, looking into his eyes). These guys are hardcore. Do you really think dropping that paperwork is necessary? How about just letting us go?
SPD (points his finger at me, says nothing, then storms back to his car, turns around half way, comes back, shakes his finger at me again): Get the hell out of here! You better not be driving after the game!

SPD follows us for four blocks, then turns. Crises averted.