You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Baseball 101.
I’m at the Nashville Sounds game Saturday night.
The Sounds are the triple A affiliate for the Milwaukee Brewers.
The park is antiquated and tired like a motel mattress.
It’s a one story edifice of expensive beers and iron gates. In the middle of the complex is a green grass field of dreams quietly wedged into the middle of a blue-collar neighborhood. It’s one part national pastime and 2 parts cock-fighting ring with a score board.
The stadium looks like chicken wire and painted plywood stuck in cement. The stadium is next to rail road tracks on one side, and industrial zoned buildings on the other. Greer Stadium is held together with duct tape and tooth picks.
The stadium is easily 35 years old with its signature guitar scoreboard looming large in center field.
It’s a cool night for baseball, in the high 50’s. The crowd is enthusiastic, wearing sweat shirts and long pants.
We’re here because I am throwing out the 1st pitch.
This is my 3rd year doing this. It’s fun, but harder than you think. They hand you a brand new baseball and it is surprisingly heavy. It’s new and slick. I imagine it slipping out of my hand during the 1st pitch and it beaning Ozzie the mascot like a scene from Bull Durham.
Last time I threw out the 1st pitch, I was nervous. I felt the adrenaline pumping in my ears. This time I’m much more relaxed as I am lead to the mound with my broadcast co-workers.
I wait for the announcer to misidentify me as Anthony. He quickly corrects himself.
I wait for my introduction to end. I see the catcher squat and the Sounds mascot, Ozzie, take his spot behind the plate like he’s the ump.
“Go ahead,” someone says.
I rear back and fire.
The brand new ball leaves my hand with a spark.
In that moment, I am the million dollar arm.
The little spheroid hurtles to the plate and I can see it’s moving at a nice clip.
The ball sizzles over the outside portion of the plate.
The catcher waits till the last second to move his mitt. Like an electric shock he lunges for the ball. The ball is moving faster than he expected and it dings off the thick raw hide of the catcher’s glove and deflects to the back stop.
I hear an ooh and ah, and it’s over.
I hit his glove. This guy is a semi pro. Can’t he even catch the ball. People half watching probably think I threw a bad pitch. That was a thing of beauty, on the outside corner, just close enough to get the batter to swing and miss.
I will later come to find out that the catcher is really a pitcher who was asked to catch the opening pitches. He speaks not a word of English and communicates to all of us through a non stop smile.
I want to say, “hey, I hit your glove.” But it won’t do any good. The catcher who is really a pitcher is signing our balls. He doesn’t care.
Play Ball!
So now I’m in the stands behind the plate. The seats are great. 10 rows up, protected by the net so we have a chance to go home with all our teeth.
That’s when I realize the woman beside me doesn’t understand baseball.
“I’ve only been to two games,” she will tell me.
The questions begin slowly, but then keep coming.
“I thought your 1st pitch counted, like it started the game,” she says laughing at herself.
I look at her, thinking she is joking.
She is not.
For the next 9 innings I find myself remembering nuances of baseball that I have rarely thought about.
It’s a cool night, and talking for 9 straight innings has made my voice hoarse.
There’s a bouncer to short. He tosses it to 2nd and the 2nd baseman fires it to first for the double play.
“6-4-3” I say.
She looks at me oddly.
“6-4-3? What’s that an area code?”
I laugh. “Each position has a number,” I say, suddenly realizing baseball has all the complication of a slide rule.
She looks at me with interest.
“The pitcher is 1. The Catcher is 2. The 1st baseman is 3. And so on.”
“Numbers. Why?”
That’s a good question.
Why?
I never really thought about that before.
“So when the ball is grounded to the shortstop, the announcer can write in the book six to three put out, and he knows the batter grounded out that at bat to the short stop.”
She smiles a beautiful nescient smile.
“OK, now you lost me. Six to what?”
And so it goes.
A left-handed batter comes to the plate. The entire infield shifts to the right side.
“What’s happening?” she asks.
Another good question. I begin explaining infield shift.
“The book on the batter must be he pulls the ball.”
“Huh? Pulls the ball?”
A moment later, I’m explaining the strike zone. “From the letters to the knees over the plate is the virtual box that is the strike zone.”
“Oh so it changes with each man? I didn’t know that.”
“This batter is batting .212 with only 3 rbi’s. He’s gonna be waiting tables next week,” i say as the batter enters the box.
“How do you know that?” she says.
I point to the big score board in center field.
Her eyes open and her brain clicks on.
“That’s a guitar,” she says.
I laugh. Yes that big scoreboard is shaped like a guitar.
“Yes. you see the numbers on the score board. Those are his stats.”
“Oh,” she says as if I have uncovered the secret of the missing link. “I wondered how you knew all that about them. It’s right there.”
I laugh and continue baseball 101. I find myself enjoying myself, explaining the tiniest rules, the simplest of baseball observations. I love that the woman wants to learn.
“.212 is terrible. .300 is good. .333 is like hall of fame.”
Just then the pitcher throw a ball that dances over the black on the outside part of the plate. The ump punches the batter out.
“See. the guy stinks.”
“How does the umpire know where the strike zone is?”
I wonder if this is a joke about him being blind or this is a bad call.
The look reminds me this is real question.
Remember the strike zone?
“well the plate never changes. But the batter’s size changes the strike zone. It’s from his knees to his letters on his jersey.”
“Oh so each guy is different?”
I never thought about it this way, but she’s right. Each guy is different.
She will ask me the score several times.
I finally point out that the visitors bat in the top part of the inning. The home team in the bottom half of the inning and each team’s run tally for that half an inning is posted in the box and added to the total.
The woman does a good job learning about all the nuances of baseball on this cold night.
“So they have to play all 9 innings?,” she asks shivering.
“Are there time outs?”
“Can they bat out-of-order if they want?”
I have taken baseball for granted. But Baseball is complex like an electrical circuit board.
We discuss the designated hitter.
“He’s a good hitter I say. The bases are loaded. If he hits it anywhere, 2 runs will score.”
Though he is the opposition, the woman begins to root for the batter.
I eye-ball her and she smiles.
The batter chases a high pitch and misses.
“Went fishing and missed,” I exclaim clapping my hands.
“Oh. That’s too bad. He feels terrible,” she says watching him in the dugout throw his bat in disgust. “Look, nobody will talk to him. That’s so sad.”
I will listen to the woman talk about shoes and shopping and a new nail salon with a piano bar.
I don’t get any of this talk either. To me, it’s the equivalent of the infield fly rule.
The game finally ends, and the fireworks begin.
You’d have thought it was the 4th of July or WWII was over.
The dark sky is blasted a coat of brilliant phosphorescence.
There is so much energy in the sky, it’s almost over kill.
“Would they do this much if they lost?” she asks.
Again, another good question.
As we head home, I realize how good a time I had explaining a game I thought I knew, but never had to explain.
Life’s Crazy™