Spring Training

Bumped into the Padres/ Mariners facility today, but not in the usual way. It was barely 11 AM, and I was on my mountain bike, on the backside of Peoria's complex of well watered fields, bouncing along Skunk Creek's rocky berm.

The bike's too small for my 6'3" frame and the gears stick, but it was a Christmas gift, so I've taken up riding. My journey started, as it typically does, around Granada Park (pictured),



near 20th St and Maryland, and today I was flying - under Glendale Ave and 16th, past the Italian-American Club on 12th, and the stately grove of eucalyptus hugging the water just beyond Northern.

Swooping through Sunnyslope Park between the Central and Dunlap underpasses, the first street level crossing was a quick one, several miles into my ride, across 7th Avenue. From there, it's a long asphalt straight to 19th, along the Army Corps of Engineeers' overflow channel, past Hatcher's scrap metal junkyards and the chorus of condemned howls from the back lot of the Arizona Humane Society.

You reach more ballfields, and a dog park, at the Rose Mofford complex (canal is bottom left in picture, below), then descend beneath I-17. On the far side of the freeway, a recorded carnival barker echoes across the midway of Castles N Coasters. Before today, the farthest I'd ridden was up to 43rd Avenue and back, but I felt so good, legs efficiently pumping, barely changing gears through the steep underpasses, I decided to extend on this beautiful spring morning.



There's a confusing tunnel underpass beneath 51st Avenue (slightly shorter than the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel), that spit me out on an unpaved equestrian trail, on the wrong side of a wide, bowl shaped green belt. Eventally, I found a trail to traverse the steeply-sided bowl to the busy asphalt bike path on the opposite ridge. Took a pitstop near 67th, for a cold drink and dipped back down into the vast Thunderbird recreation area, into this planned floodplain of underutilized playing fields, below trickling ducts and federal cataracts high on the sidewalls, feeding the now skinny waterway bisecting the length of the park.

The rec area ends in the mid seventies, and the bike trail deteriorates, especially if you dont know where you're going, and dont see particularly well, both of which apply. One senses a faint scent of sewage. Now, within sight of the Padre/Mariner light towers, I veered too far right and wound up in a subdivision, before reversing tracks back to the Skunk Creek berm, which abuts the rear of the verdant MLB complex. This is the less traveled Cactus League, and was deserted, except for an old man walking east towards me along the rutted escarpment. Embarrassed to be confronted in such unpromising environs, we exchanged the nervous "Hiya's" of lost souls on unspoken roads to nowhere.

Up a bit, my power shifting juggernaut flushed out a middle aged man and woman from the canal's thick brush. They sprang across my path like jackrabbits, but neither acknowledged me. He held a stick of some kind in his hand. Farther west, behind a nondescript warehouse, an even younger couple was having a snowball fight. A swimming pool-sized pile of snow lay in this weed strewn Peoria alley, enabling their childlike cold war.

This westward soul wasnt getting any younger, however, so I turned left, to the south side of Skunk Creek, past a wire fence warning No Tresspassing, and headed home. For the first time this morning, a breeze hit me in the face. I was having trouble pushing through the higher gears all of a sudden, so ratcheted down to the middle family. Turns out, I hadnt noticed the nice tailwind riding west. It took a good 15-20 minutes just to get back to 75th Avenue. I labored by three Hispanic girls pushing perambulators, and made two decisions. First, I would steal another drink at the rest stop on 67th. Second, I would hug the Thunderbird ridge and not descend into its bowl, to avoid exerting energy pushing up the sidewalls.

I took the promised drink, and wobbled and walked around. My lower back and rump were starting to stiffen and numb, which happened on shorter trips, so I lingered, tired but unalarmed. Took another drink. Stretched. Only 87 avenues to go.



When I hopped on the bike, the first thing I noticed was the wind. This wasnt going to be easy. The greenbelt that bustled with bikers and walkers just an hour ago was almost empty. I struggled back through the 51st avenue tunnels, and moreso under 43rd, grinding gears, so I stopped and dismounted. I was a little dizzy, my rear was numb, so I walked around, sat down and made two more decisions. First, the next time I rested, there would be shade. This place had no cover, but was where I got tired. It also dawned on me that it was getting pretty hot in the sun. I conceded that all future arterial crossings (there would be about a dozen), except the interstate, would need to be at street level - stop, look and listen style - as I no longer had the aerobic resilience to drive through underpass inclines.

Fortunately, it's a flat course, so I ducked my head into the wind, and eeked across 35th Avenue towards the I-17. It's a long tunnel and the incline wasnt as severe as I feared (ie I didnt have to walk the bike), but I was very fatigued. Despite frequent grip changes on the handlebars, the hands, arms and shoulders ached. Legs just about gone, and I was making miserable time, a long way from home.

I pulled in front of the dog park and took a long drink. Sat in the sand, under a shade tree, not caring if I was sitting on years of dried dog pee. It felt good to sit down, in the shade and I could've taken a nap, were there not promises to keep. I felt homeless, ragged, by the park's double gated entrance, as if happy, peppy dog people were afraid I'd ask them for money or a ride. Each time I stood up, I felt a little dizzy, but knew I'd feel more balanced on the bike. So, I took another drink and got on, against the wind.

The sit down helped some, propelling me to 19th avenue, past the condemned dogs off Hatcher, all the way to Sunnyslope High. Seeing the school was a lift, as Central Ave borders the property's far side. Once there, on the east side of town, I would feel "almost home." I waited for traffic to clear on Central and leaned ahead, but already, recuperative benefits of my canine siesta were spent and I set the bike down just shy of Seventh, under the last acacia tree, across the canal from a mortuary.



My acacia spread from its elevated bed, contained by a concrete barrier about a foot wide. I lay on the barrier, on my back for the first time, as if in a stretcher or coffin. It felt peaceful, and my face welcomed the shade of yellow pistils swaying overhead in the beneficent breeze.

My wife rang me on the cell. At least I brought that. I'd been gone three and a half hours. She asked if I needed a ride. The thought had crossed my mind. "Not yet" I said, but cautioned I might need one soon. Her call was a comfort and challenge. I could go a little further, with the upcoming water fountain at Northern, and told her I should be home within the hour.

I needed ten more minutes under the tree, then gingerly traversed Seventh St, three lanes at a time, and was pretty sure I'd stop before Northern, which I did. The fountain there barely dribbled and was hard to drink from. I sucked in air with coolant, and sat in the rest area, and lay on my back once more.

A model and photographer exited a Porsche and she posed by the magnificent stand of eucalyptus. My last leg had been too brief and I wasnt feeling well. I thought about calling home and pulled the phone from my shorts. A rescue would be nice. Help was only ten minutes away and I visualized sitting right there, being brought waters and a banana, and my kid hefting the bike into our SUV. I'd already ridden farther than I ever had. A hundred avenues out, and nearing ninety back. Maybe that was enough. But I'm 48 years old, and even though (and perhaps because) it's painfully obvious this ride was a mistake, I dont know if I'll ever venture this far again. This was either the long bike trip where we rescued Dad, the one he quit, or the long trip Dad finished against the elements.

I had just seen a doctor for the first time in a decade, and there was nothing seriously wrong in the basic physical. Thirty years and forty pounds ago, I had run high school cross country.





Even then, I was predisposed to heat stress and stomach cramps, occasionally vomiting after the finish line surge. I never won a race but had always finished. I put the phone back in my shorts.

It took a long time to cross Northern. Traffic both ways, plus my feeble pace required additional seconds to cross. Twelfth street was skinnier and easier to span and 16th more difficult. Normally, at this juncture, I cross a tiny bridge, zip under Glendale Avenue and follow the canal past my neighborhood, down to Granada Park. I didnt have the strength nor stamina now. My sunburned face was cool and dry, caked with salt. I would cross the six lanes of Glendale Avenue, hopefully before delerium set in. Three lanes first, camp in the turning lane and wait. And wait. I pushed hard for the far sidewalk and made it.

Now I could take my shortcut, a hundred shady yards east, completely level, to the 51 freeway overpass. I beat a minivan across the southbound on ramp to the overpass bridge. At the off ramp ahead, two lines of westbound cars idled, close enough I could touch them. I tried to catch my breath and wits from my concrete perch. The pole position car motioned for me to take the crosswalk before his light turned green. I motioned him forward instead. I needed the blow. He smiled and led the gassy procession past. I looked around the off ramp bend - and bolted - then dipped behind a white pickup, across the last of the four freeway crosswalks.

It was downhill from here, coasting down 19th street, leaning into a left before punishing my dead weight over the final, steep lip of the driveway. Home. Thirsty and hyperventilating, I dispensed a tall water and fell into a plastic backyard chair. My wife said something about our summer vacation plans and I grunted. Another glass of water and the best banana ever. A couple of small oranges. I lay in bed soonafter, achy, half beathing-half groaning, shrouded with a beach towel, once I got the chills. I asked for the big red plastic bowl, and vomited the fruit.

Then a warm, wobbly shower and I put on fresh, loose clothes slowly, like an old man. It had been more than four hours in the sun, and thirty five, perhaps forty miles, on an unseasonably warm and gusty day, by one normally hard pressed to jog by five or six consecutive telephone poles. A couple hours later, after modest sips of Gatorade and licking the salt off crackers, there were stories to be told.

I am a loud vomiter, and when my body eventually progressed to the living room, the teen belatedly asked - in sarcasm more than query - if I "was going to die". I am, of course, but not today. I smiled sheepishly at the involuntary cachophony and assured him I'd be alright.

Two weeks ago, at his parents' request to get more involved at school, the freshman tentatively joined the track team. He thinks the coach runs them too hard, but he's dabbling with the discus and shot, for the time being. Now, I asked him to pick my bike off the driveway and put it in the shed. This was the better rescue, for him certainly. I am a jaded soul on an unspoken road to nowhere, but he's still young. At least I had brought it home. A few more crackers, and Providence, and maybe we'd both find our legs.

Invisibility Cloak

Just got back from New York, and in case anyone was wondering, I'm not making any of this up. We like to get out and about when we're in the city, so the first night we went to the mega Bon Jovi concert in Central Park. My son wore a white shirt with the Red D*Backs lettering. The next day we mostly hung out in Times Square and saw a show. The third night, my son wore a red D*backs shirt as we wedged ourselves into an incredibly crowded '4' train uptown to Yankee Stadium, where we watched the Home Run Derby, with tens of thousands of Yankee fans and Baseball enablers.

I mention the shirts because in all that time, crossing paths with hundreds of thousands of people, not one New Yorker remarked about the Dback logos. Not one. As far as I can tell, no one even gave my kid so much as a look. Boy, was he disappointed. I'm not sure what it means, exactly, but thought it was all the more fascinating since on our last day, we hung out at the Gershwin Theatre for half an hour, trying to resell some tickets, and the people we sold them to, immediately remarked about my son's shirt, which on that day happened to sport the name and logo of the Phoenix high school he'll be entering this fall.

Maybe the biggest baseball city in the world didnt bother to look closely, and assumed my kid was in an Iron Butterfly shirt, but in any case, this identity problem that Derrick Hall and I talked about, doesnt appear to be going away anytime soon.

People Will Come

This story might make your skin crawl. No gore and it shouldnt ruin your lunch, but it's a little creepy.

Just over a year ago, I posted a sentimental tribute to my son, about the time he filled in as an AFL batboy. It touched on baseball and life's illusions, and I was pleased to get some positive feedback on it. Like all posts, though, it eventually got archived and my thoughts turned to a hundred other ostensibly related topics. Baseball...Diamondbacks...Alyssa Milano......How to make my blog more viable...Alyssa Milano.

For those of us not in on the big sell, it hasnt been easy getting featured on mlblogs. But that's old news. The point is, you come up with gimmicks to make your page stand out; to make it more fun or useful than that of the geek next door. For example, I added sardonic images to my posts, and foreign language translations on the sidebar - including one in beautiful Arabic heiroglyphics, as a joke. Funny thing was, I actually got some hits from the Kingdom. Not a lot, but they'd trickle in from different IP addresses. Got a similar hit yesterday from the UAE.

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Like most bloggers, I got me one of them site meters. They're fascinating tools, providing all sorts of free info about your readers except who they really are. I wondered if my Saudi readers were expats with Arizona connections, reaching out for Diamondbacks from ARAMCO barracks halfway around the globe. Or maybe a privileged prince with a secret American baseball bug? I really had no idea.

*

Most baffling was that the Middle Easterners, almost without exception, gravitated to a single post I had written some time ago - the one about the AFL game. Gee, it really was a good story, I told myself. But why weren't the Saudis reading any of my other stuff? This struck me as a tad queer. Perhaps cryptic Saudi significance was innocently embedded in the initials "AFL"? Ak-Faisal Ladin, anyone? No. The AFL baseball team was called the "Desert Dogs" could that be a connection? Or did Julio Franco, who I mention twice in the story, have a burgeoning fan club in Riyadh? I was at a loss.

*

Turns out, it was none of that. Further snooping on SiteMeter revealed that this distant seduction was fueled, not by anything I had written, but by a stock photo inserted near the bottom of the AFL post - a picture of a boy my son's age, from the waist up, taking a shower. It turns out the two most popular Google searches to find Diamondhacks, from Saudi Arabia anyway, are:

1. Naked boy
2. boy in shower

Lovely. I dont wanna come down too hard on any society righteous enough to parade around in long, white robes with funny hats, nor one sufficiently sage to forbid women to drive. Nor do I (heaven forbid!) want to come across like a Crusader, but with due respect to the fine folks sitting on the world's largest oil reserves, their Minister of Purity really needs to look into this whole gay pedophilia thing and consider chopping off some dicks.

(photos ourtesy of ottawalynxblog.com and raidernet.com)

Get Off The Bus

Most every Christmas, courtesy of Mrs. Beanball, my fireplace stocking brims with a pair of overpriced Suns' tickets for corner seats in the upper deck - so each winter I find myself perilously high above a game or two. I take our 13 year old son, which is doubly nice because he follows the NBA with pubescent passion, and because, soon enough I imagine, he wont be caught dead at games with his dad.

Last night, we took the Phoenix city bus to the game. Between waiting at the bus stop near our home and picking up strangers along the route, it takes twice as long to get downtown as it does by car, and the overall cost (split between two people) is roughly equivalent. But there are reasons we take the bus. The lad enters high school this fall, and he may ride the bus solo, so I'd like to familiarize him with particulars now; how to hop on the right trolley, how the new fare cards work, how to pull the loopy cord over the window at the right time to request his stop, and how to hold his own with assorted creeps looking for an easy mark.


My suburban son likes that the bus drops us off on shadowy First Avenue, requiring a quieter, retro stroll to the gleaming Purple Palace on Third Street, than if we parked in the sterile Civic Center district just north of the arena. From First Avenue, we file past ground floor offices of archaic travel agents and the harshly lit dens of 24 hr bail bondsmen, until the still lovely portico of the art deco Luhrs Building draws our eyes upward. Across the street, ghostly white panels loom over Patriot's Park, awaiting demolition. Only our sneakers are heard on the dark, uneven sidewalk, until we approach scalper's corner and just to the south, the squalid adobe flophouses along Madison.

Inside US Airways Arena, it is not nearly so quiet. According to the shot clock perched above each backboard, we arrived 17 minutes before tipoff, more than sufficient time to cultivate a headache or damage an eardrum. I've been going to Suns games, on and off, for twenty years, and have never heard sound this loud or constant at a sports event. The teenager, a Led Zeppelin afficionado, even said it bothered him. Ultimately, it made me more sad and deaf than angry.

Novelist Richard Ford wrote a dynamite piece in TNYT Magazine recently about how the essence of games are being drowned out by an unprecedented assault of spectacle, speculation and, for lack of a better word, crap . Ford observed that while he loves NBA basketball in particular (ie the singular athleticism, fluid grace, etc.), he just cant stand going to an NBA game. Poor Richard. All-Manic. I hear you. (Well, I could hear you, after I left the arena.)

It's not like I didnt see this coming. It's true I just got off the bus, but it wasnt the bus from Kazakhstan either. NBA pregame intros have been bombastic for years, but it's no longer just loud music intros and cheesy, sing songy PA men. Today, there's a deafening, multimedia homage to the home team and to each starter, backlit in the darkened arena by four humongous floor torches, the heat from which we actually felt in the second deck. It reminded one of pagan ceremonies from The Temple of Doom when that guy lost his heart. Yesterday, the arena organist might prompt rhythmic chants of "D-FENSE" with a few fourth quarter chords; today, a relentless army of "in-house hosts", cheerleaders, dancers and acrobats, DJs and a gorilla exhort us when to stand, when to cheer, when to cheer louder, when to beg for a free pizza, when to jump up and down for a T-Shirt or for a coupon redeemable for a free pizza or a free T-shirt. It is all choreographed, none of it is spontaneous or has any connection with the game on the court. The truth is that, in terms of arena atmosphere, these busy, motivated employees generate so much noise by themselves as to render the 18K paying fans a trivial afterthought .

What once was a competition between two athletic teams has taken a back seat to the contest in the stands between reasonably intelligent, well adjusted fans and the corporation smothering their individuality with an imposing cacophony of mindless drivel. The NBA, via its ear splitting, high decibel voodoo, has methodically cultivated this dichotomy in the stands - between passive drones waiting to be told what to do, and more discerning fans, now relegated to expressing themselves via opting out from the nonsense - whether that means silence or actual departure from the arenas and the game they love. It is an exhausting visceral assault, reminiscent of military sensory overload tactics aimed at the likes of Manuel Noriega.

Why all the fuss? After all, this is, or will be, primarily a baseball blog. I guess it's because baseball so models itself on the NBA and NFL; rising ticket prices, luxury boxes, in house "hosts", etc. The spectacle and feel of an MLB game today, is so much like an NBA game of fifteen years ago. I am sad to say I see it coming. The torches have been passed and MLB fans will eventually feel the heat, from whatever deck they or their thoughtful wives can afford.

After the assault, we two boys marched up darkened Central, and lingered at Clark Gable's star, fading on the sidewalk, in front of the elegant pocket lobby of the historic San Carlos Hotel, then brushed by a panhandler or two, on our way to the bus depot on Van Buren. This forgotten downtown corridor, shadowing the lively lavender hubbub to the East, is so quiet at 9:30 at night, traffic signals can be heard switching on and off, as father and son silently pass through, conversing loudly with the past.

Jersey Boy

Two indignities were borne today, at my first Arizona Fall League game at Phoenix Muni Stadium. After parking the car, gratis, in a terrific spot adjacent to the ballpark, good cheer runneth over as my son and I neared the lone ticket window, with no line in sight. My mood soured, however, when the elderly box officer looked up from his coil of tickets and matter of factly inquired if I was a "senior". Ouch. I had always assumed that first dagger would be twisted by some gum popping teen, not a septuagenarian peering through a smoky window in obvious need of a cleaning. Look again, oldtimer! You and me are on opposite sides of Julio Franco!

And ten minutes prior to first pitch, just as the boy finished his $4.50 dog (the AFL really does have an MLB feel), a solicitous ballpark rep asked us if son would like to be batboy for the day - which he very much did. Was the AFL Batboy Assn. embroiled in an ugly, MLB style, work stoppage? More likely, the boy was the only age appropriate candidate in the near empty park, between the preferred ages of ten and however young I thought I looked before purchasing a ticket.

In any case, the kid's adult mentor suited him up in a Phoenix Desert Dogs jersey and instructed him on his duties, which as it turned out, were to be the Desert Dogs' batboy - and batboy, ballboy and clubhouse concierge (French for "slave") for both teams.

For three and a half hours, the last minute rookie in sneakers retrieved not only bats, but every foul ball hit back to the screen, assembled and disassembled the on deck circle of weighted donuts and pine tar rags every half inning on each side of the field, and kept a fresh supply of nearly a hundred balls coming in batches of three or four to the home plate umpire - all within the flow of a major league paced game. He poured and ran drinks to the blue crew upon request and even passed a couple notes between dugouts. For close to four hours, the conscientious kid - doing the job of two or three boys - had nothing to drink except what I smuggled him twice between innings and was too preoccupied to take a pee. It was 90' in the sun; a 10 inning, 10 - 7 contest that would've easily dragged on half an hour longer had the lad not done his job so earnestly, and so well. My son is twelve years old.

Now, I know what you're thinking. It's a privilege, or at least a special occasion to be a batboy in a dugout full of imminent major leaguers. Well, yes. In an exclusive postgame interview with this reporter, the preteen observed, for example, that the players say the 'f' word "all the time", but when asked if any of the fifty or so coaches and players he served in both dugouts took a moment from their day to strike up a brief conversation or simply tell him he was 'doing good' on his first day, he replied, "No. Not really."

Despite his youth, he's already familiar with the inevitable ups and downs of the working world. When a neighbor recently underpaid him for some yardwork, he refused parental intervention, chalking it up to an old lady's honest mistake. Last week, a homeless kook gave him some grief while voluntarily serving in a soup kitchen with some classmates. It shook him up a bit, but he's moved on.

In the sixth inning, a lady fan remarked what a yeoman job he was doing, better than other AFL games she had seen, and that maybe he'd get "some autographs" out of it. I smiled weakly and replied, "We'll see." The boy never asked for an autograph or souvenir, because he feels he's there to do a job - not to be a self-serving nuisance.

When the game finally ended, on a boisterous walkoff slam by the Rays' Elijah Dukes, the exhausted boy quietly gathered the jubilantly tossed helmets, the donuts, resin and pine tar rags for the last time and disappeared into the clubhouse to deposit them into equipment bags. His mentor thanked him and the boy reflexively thanked him back, as quickly naked athletes whooped it up after their long days. He unbuttoned and removed the sweat soaked Desert Dogs jersey, for another batboy on another day. As he climbed the dugout steps, empty handed, to meet up with his dad, the overseer called to take a cracked bat as a souvenir. The boy's polite and convincingly enthusiastic "Thanks!" betrayed the fact he was not smiling, as he held a damaged Kody Kirkland model for the car ride home.

I put my arm around the taciturn batboy, as we walked up the stadium steps together. His tee shirt was drenched like the back of a Phoenix day laborer. He smelled like a man. I told him how proud I was of him, for working hard and keeping his end of the bargain.

"I'm never doing that again...at least not without money", he said in a determined but not quite angry tone.

Good for you, I thought to myself. He carried away something better than a Desert Dogs jersey, more valuable - even - than a couple deserved pats on the back: his self respect. My offer of a fast food pitstop on the way home was uncharacteristically declined.


"I just want to take a shower."


He headed straight for the bathroom, turned on the showerhead, and for the second time that afternoon, gave an adult the shirt off his back. He washed away the salt and innocence, retrieved a clean shirt, and managed a smile, well before his dad, just in time for supper.


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(first published at http://azdiamondhacks.mlblogs.com/diamondhacks/tearjerkers/index.html )