By Ed Agner
A few weeks back, Phil and I were
poking around the FANTABULOUS Columbus Clippers website (Like I need to give
out the URL. I know you, like me, have
that set as your home page.) and Phil stumbled across
a note on there that Mick Foley was going to make a special appearance at the
6/11 game. I only state that because
after I called Dad to see if he was free to go to the game – as an early
Father’s Day/late Mother’s Day present to both of the folks, not at all really
related to Foley’s appearance – I IM’ed Bill to let
him know that I was going to the game and told him that “Mike Foley” was gonna be there. Phil,
Bill and I then proceeded spend the next few weeks making far too many jokes
about him being a cross between Mick and Dave Foley; a fat, hairy Canadian with
gapped teeth and one ear. This is
basically the one joke I have for this entire piece. Feel free to skim through the rest…or click
your back button. Whatever.
Now, you all
should know that I love minor league baseball more than is acceptable from a
normal, functioning human being. If not,
just go to the Balboni piece. Maybe it’s just because I live in Ohio and
there is no major league baseball anywhere to be seen, or maybe…MAYBE I DO
truly appreciate the folksy charm of places where real people congregate to
kill a few hours of a summer evening…or maybe it’s the $9 for box
seats…OK. It’s likely the latter – but
anyway. I was all sorts of giddy coming
into the game.
I pick up Dad
around
We get to the
park a little past 6 – one of the main roads we normally take to the park was
closed for construction (Come to
Cooper Stadium is
no great feat of architecture and it’s not in the finest area of town. It’s a ballpark that’s been in this spot
for…ever…or something and pretty well uncared for by the polo set in a
neighborhood they have no interest in doing anything for but swinging a
wrecking ball in the general direction.
Obviously, there’s been some renovation on the park over the years
(which is more than can be said for the surrounding neighborhood), but for the
most part the park or the hood doesn’t look a whole lot different from when I
started going to games here over 20 years ago – and I can’t imagine it looking
too different from when Johnny Mize played here. They fortunately took out the ghastly
artificial turf a few years back so that the park now resembles something less…70’s. It ain’t much to
look at, sure. But it’s a ballpark, by
God – it’s safe, it’s warm, it’s home. Just a baseball park; nothing more, nothing less. It has no great bells or whistles or
children’s playgrounds or anything and that’s just fine. It’s a friggin’ ballpark,
that’s all it needs to be. Just sell the
FRIGGIN’ game and you’ll get people at the park who actually want to see the
game. I know that is all sorts of
unfashionable to the people who want Perrier splashed up their butts between
every inning, but Lord God A-Mighty, all you need is the field and some
bleachers and everything will be all right.
Speaking of
which, there’s been a lot of talk recently about how the Grey Poupon set want to move the Clips to downtown
Anyway, Dad and I
get in the stadium and there’s this MASSIVE banner photo of Derek Jeter. The Clips are into pimping all the players
who’ve gone from the Clips to the bigs and that’s
nice but I mean, they pimp EVERYONE who went to the bigs
from the Clips with a banner photo. Fer chrissakes, there’s a Homer
Bush banner! Homer Bush! Jeter, I can understand. Bernie Williams, I can understand. Mattingly, no problem. Shoot, Balboni I
can understand but I am a Balboni mark. But Homer Friggin’
Bush? Umm, OK. Dad and I, along with everyone else coming through the gate make the obligatory Jeter jokes
– “Hey, look! He’s perfectly still! Just like he’s playing SS
for the Yanks!”
I eye the crowd
and it’s split between Yankee fans, Red Sox fans and
ECW mutants there to get Mick Foley’s scabs autographed. I weep for society.
I pop into the
souvenir stand to get Phil his Nick Johnson bobblehead
– the woman running that counter of course had never heard of Nick Johnson
which, added to the fact that I saw no banner for Nick in the main concourse,
I’m just throwing out here to cheese Phil off – and I pick up new Clipper hats
for Dad and I and a pack of cards for Bill.
I eye the Jeter celebriduck for Bill and
decide against getting Bill killed in Beantown. There’s a big sign at the check out desk –
“Please do not ask us about Mick Foley.
We know nothing.” That seems apt.
We head to our
seats – five rows back from the field just off of the backstop screen. Dad breathes a sigh of relief when he
realizes there is no more Drew Henson to scare us to death with errant
throws. He then tells me I’ll have to
catch anything that comes our way. We
then joke about my fielding inability and how at least Dad knows his nose is safe. I blame it all on my Uncle’s not coaching me well
enough. Dad tells me he never factored
that into marrying mom. Ahh, fathers and
sons.
That national
anthem is mangled by some bimbo who just makes up words in the middle but
doesn’t too American Idol-ize the song. It
wasn’t the worst rendition I’ve ever heard, but definitely not good. Only a
smattering of boos break through the applause and I realize that the ECW
mutants are at home with cheese graters or something since Foley appearing at a
minor league baseball game is selling out.
Dad and I then try to guess what player the woman is sleeping with to
get to sing the anthem. We both guess
Bubba Crosby since scrap is sexy. Dad
and I try to figure Bubba’s pick up lines.
We both decide that starting with “I’ve seen Derek Jeter naked” probably
works the best. At
least in
Foley throws out
the first pitch. I stifle laughter when
he’s announced a Mick instead of Mike.
His wrist is all wrapped up in an elastic bandage for some god unknown
reason. He throws pretty well,
actually. Bubba Crosby catches the first
pitch and the ball doesn’t bounce or anything.
There’s actually some tail to his fastball – which is apt since Mick is
packing some serious tail in his sweatpants.
Foley does not beat the crap out of the Clips mascots so he is dead to
me.
Your starting pitchers for the night – Abe Alvarez for the PawSox and Pete Munro for the Clips. Alvarez is a sorta-kinda
prospect for the Sox, mostly just because he’s left-handed. Munro was a sorta-kinda prospect for the Blue Jays and Astros five years ago.
He’s just hanging on at this point hoping for some sort of Tanyon Sturtze renaissance. Yeah, that ain’t
happening.
Did I mention the
heat? Oh yeah, there’s some heat going
on. And humidity. We swelter.
We pray for a breeze. We ain’t getting squat.
Obviously, this means that this game will take forever.
The Clips take
the lead in the bottom of the first on an RBI double by Mike Vento. Abe Alvarez works slowly. I mean REALLLLLL slow. Granted he’s in a bit of trouble but man is
he working slowly. People start to
squirm and mutter curse words in Alvarez’ general direction. No one is drunk enough yet to light into him
too much.
Roberto Petagine leads off the bottom of the second. I tell Dad the Petagine
story. Dad replies with, “So the Sox
play that scuzzball with the funny hair over
him?” I reply with, “Which scuzzball with the funny hair?” This leads to a bad Abbott and Costello
sketch involving Dad not being able to tell the difference between
Now, whenever I
go to a game, I can always be assured that the people sitting in my general
vicinity are absolute morons. Generally,
at a Clippers game, said morons are always from
Foley sets up a
table in the main concourse to sell autographs - $5 for a signed sock, $3 for a
signed picture. No one around me is
buying that.
The PawSox jump all over the Clips in the
third inning, putting four across thanks the Pete Munro suddenly becoming
unfamiliar with the strike zone and a Felix Escalona
error. The look-at-me mall punk
behind me gets loud and abrasive as if this was Yankees-Red Sox Game 7 of the
ALCS. Coupled with the heat and booze,
people start planning the kid’s obituary.
In the middle of
the fourth, the Clips hold a little game where Foley rolls a pair of huge dice
down the backstop screen and a couple of kids guess what numbers Foley is going
to roll. The kids lose, but…you need to
learn that kind of stuff at an early age.
See!!! Minor league baseball as
teacher!
The PawSox put up another four-spot in the sixth thanks to a
2-run DONG!!! By Justin Sherrod. People start looking towards the exits. Dad and I are stuck to our seats in a pool of
sweat. The Red Sox fan behind us in
really pushing his luck.
They play the
A couple of
old-timers sit in front of me and mock the Yankees for having nothing here in
Abe Alvarez takes
the mound for the Sox in the bottom of the sixth. Now, I mentioned that Alvarez worked slowly
in the first. He pretty much kept up the
snail-like pace throughout.
Nibble-nibble-nibble, walk around the mound, adjust all his equipment,
nibble some more. People start giving
him the business in the second. By the
fourth they want his head on a stick. With
the home team down 8-1 in the sixth and with Alvarez working even slower,
security starts getting fidgety. A lot
of people are already gone or else Alvarez would be a dead quasi-prospect when
he takes his sweet ol’ time throwing his lollipops up
there in the sixth – of course I types that as “sweat ol’
Time” initially, which was apt considering everyone was covered in sweat by
this time. Friggin’ heat. Friggin’ nibbling pitchers.
Somewhere in here
the Clippers hitting coach gets kicked out for arguing balls and strikes. Yes, the hitting coach. Since he didn’t want a cheapy,
he decides to throw a mini-Earl Weaver and kicks dirt,
screams a bunch and walks away to the air conditioned clubhouse. People line up to go with him. The moron Red Sox fans behind me are
completely lost as to what’s happening as it
interferes with the cat stories being told.
COLTER BEAN!!! comes on to mop up and the PawSox
tack on another run thanks to the umpire forgetting what a strike is and the
Clips tragicomedic infield defense. 9-1 PawSox and the
parking lot is a blur of activity.
Seventh inning
stretch and everyone is heading out of the stadium. I curse my fate as the moron fans behind us
are not among those fleeing.
A pop up our way
in the bottom of the seventh gets Dad and I knees in
the backs our necks thanks to the moron fans behind us. The ball was two rows in front of us. I heretofore had kept to myself no matter the
obnoxiousness of the morons behind us.
Getting knees in the neck is where I draw the line. I want to kill them all but instead just turn
and tell them to be cool. They get up
and leave. If I had known that would
work, I would have tried that in the first.
I hate myself beyond belief.
Foley comes out
at the top of the 8th (maybe, I am unsure, but let’s roll with that). The hot dog race. They ask Foley what his favorite hot dog
is. Dad and I look at him and guess “all
of them.” Foley says Mustard. Out comes three hot dogs – three interns in
hot dog outfits mind you – one hot dog covered in catsup, one in relish and one
in mustard. Catsup and Relish take the
lead. You can see where this is
going. Foley rushes the leading dogs,
throws weak clotheslines at them both so that Mustard wins. Dad looks at me. I shrug.
This is highbrow entertainment in
The Clips go down
without a whimper in the 8th and 9th - including Bubba Crosby getting rung
up to end the game on a pitch that may or may not have been a strike to Randy
Johnson. Game over. The 15 people left in the park head for their
cars. Dad leaves happy anyway – making
me happy in the process. Everyone wins
in the end. Minor
league baseball, people. Go out
and support your local teams. Get drunk,
have fun, run wild. That’s what it’s all
about.