Monday, July 10, 2006

the home run derby

My previous associations with gentlemen who were baseball fans gave the All-Star Game an uncertain status in my mind. These other individuals did not think much of it, and my only previous exposure was when it was in Seattle a few years ago (and even then, it only impacted me because Jack McDowell, longtime friend of Eddie Vedder, set up a benefit concert which was held in a tiny stifling club on the hottest day of the year and lasted about 9 hours).

TBF, on the other hand, thinks it’s all kind of neat, so we were all set to plan the beginning of this otherwise baseball-less week around tonight and tomorrow.  As it turned out, we had to take a visiting friend to the airport tonight at 8pm, so TBF set up the VCR and we got back in time to see DWright’s second round in the Home Run Derby.

“SIXTEEN HOME RUNS?!” we said, in unison, as we sat down.
“I don’t know if I like that,” TBF said.
“I wanted him to follow Billy Wagner’s advice,” was my contribution.

Of course, that didn’t stop us from sitting there, glued to the screen, for the rest of the second round and then the third round. What a beautiful baseball stadium. It’s TBF’s #1 Stadium I Want To Visit (and was slated for a September visit until we made a decision to go to Seattle to visit friends, and see the Mariners play the A’s in a few weeks).

“I can’t believe it - he’s going to the second round,” TBF said.
“No one thought he would do that. I was betting on David Ortiz.”
“Hell, *I* was betting on David Ortiz!”
“You’ll have to buy me a glove when we go,” I nudged him.
Blank look.
“Is that not cool?” [There are Rules, you know. No one over the age of 10 is allowed to bring a glove to a game.]
“No, gloves are permitted for all ages at the Home Run Derby. The whole point of going is to catch the home runs.”

I loved watching the fielders, the little kids with the t-shirts too big for them, scattering over the outfield like a flock of sheep.

(Okay, fast-moving sheep. Sheep running away from a wolf.)

I appreciated the kayakers in the Allegheny, although you could not pay me to swim in that water. EVER. It doesn’t burn like Cleveland but that water ain’t clean.

I hope there is a better band playing the game tomorrow, unlike that “Big & Rich” that we unfortunately sat through before we left for the airport.
“‘Big & Rich’? That’s compensating for something,” TBF said.
“How about, ‘Lame & Moronic’?” I say. “Puerile &...”
“Going over their heads now.”
“Got it.”

Whatever. There are enough GOOD bands that are baseball FANATICS that would play this thing just for the tickets. Get one of them please. In fact, there are probably enough unsigned bands in Pittsburgh that are better than what was onstage tonight who would write you a rock opera for the occasion.

But, back to the Derby. We did sit and watch all 16 of the round one HR’s once it was over, and - dear Lord. I loved when the mic would cut out after an unfortunately aimed fly or foul ball - it took me a few minutes to realize it was the 7-second delay button in action.  I loved DW saying that Cliff Floyd thought he’d hit two, loved LoDuca’s smile when he came up to shake David’s hand after the third round (is it just me or do his eyebrows look completely unnatural? Like he got them done just for the Derby. I’m not seeing LoDuca as the metrosexual type).

I was glad for David, but—well, I’ll quote TBF: “I-just-hope-this-doesn’t-fuck-anything-up!”

A-[BEEP]-men.

(WHY are the NL jerseys so UGLY?! That yellow! A color that MG would never see herself wearing.)