A Day at the Park

Washington Nationals vs Chicago White Sox,
June 19, 2010.

The impression I had was Washington decided to build their new stadium downtown, on the river. Sounds great. But when I got off the Metro, I first noticed the complex (which is the name I use vs stadium) was pretty well sealed off from the city. You could have been in Anywhere, USA, only having access to the complex. You entered via the center field area and both walkways to the left and right were a series of commercial food chain stores. Much like a mall's food court. Much like meaning it was exactly that, thus the continuation of the building of the generic America, blotting out regionalism. Just to the left, in it's own building was a very large PlayStation and video arcade. I'm only guessing they were included in case someone had mistakenly become trapped inside the complex and couldn't find their way out, needing something to do.

The field itself was beautiful. Meticulously cut rich green grass with the smooth browns of the infield. Ah, baseball. But alas, in center field loomed the largest "Jumbletron" I had ever seen. It's size and scope menacingly looked over the field demanding you're attention vs the live players warming up on the field. When the game begun, it was the center of attention. It dictated the pace, information, mood of the game. During the game, some young Secrest-type of boy, with a mike, did live interview/stories in the ballpark which aired on the Jumbletron, causing me at one point to ask the stranger sitting next to me, "Where is that person? He appears to be in the stadium somewhere, but I don't see him anywhere. Why isn't he watching the game? Or better, why are we watching him and not the game." And the Jumbletron's pace was feverish, constantly bombarding its audience with stories, ads, facts and figures, Hollywood poses of players flexing their muscles before they batted. I think in a short period, I was developing symptoms of autism. To tell you the truth, when a batter comes up in a particular situation, let's say a man on first, one out, the batter needs to at least move that runner over to second, the pitcher's role is to not let this happen, which dictates the sequence of pitches he is about to throw, all the while the fielders appropriately position themselves to be in the best possible spot for this situation, the shortstop and second baseman giving each other open/closed mouth signals behind their gloves indicating who will cover second if there is a play there...and during all of this (which is taking place in a short span of seconds), coaches on the field/dugout furiously are sending out coded signals scripting the next few minutes in time. To savor this moment, taking in all possible scenarios, predicting the outcome, I don't need the Jumbletron's help. I do not need to know where and when this player was born. I do not need to know their favorite food or color. I do not need to know their average in every possible situation. I do not need flashing digital signs telling me to clap. I do not need LOUD bad punk rock music playing. What I need is peace and quiet so that I can think and feel the tension and drama which is being played out on the field. The sounds of baseball; crack of the bat, infield chatter, leather ball hitting leather gloves have all but been lost.

But what disturbed me the most was what the average fan couldn't see. As part of the package, we were given a VIP tour of the stadium. I naively thought this would be such landmarks as the locker rooms, bullpen, dugout, but instead, a marketing tour of the private clubs buried in the belly of the stadium. All of these were accessible only by a club ticket holder or the most exclusive, President's Club. I'm was never sure who was ever allowed access there. I'm certain it could never be me. All of them reminded me of airline club rooms. Leather chairs, couches, restaurant, bar and many, many mini-Jumbletrons. The selling point was why sit in the heat watching a game, when you could be inside? I pinched myself to see if this was a dream, but it was not, at least I don't think so. I'd have to go back again to make sure, but I know I'll never be allowed to witness these clubs again as one of the "small" people. During this part of the tour, a thought flashed through my mind...the division between those in America who have money and those who don't, is widening. The smell of stale beer, lingering cigar smoke, empty crushed peanuts shells were no where to be seen and somewhere in my unconscious soul, I knew it just wasn't right to be walking on carpeting in a baseball stadium.

My greatest sadness was walking down the long hallway which entered the President's Club. On the wall was a framed photograph of every President throwing out the first pitch at a Washington opening day. Politics were lost in these pictures, captured was the greatness of that traditional moment of baseball. Suits and ties, commissioners. It is a unique time line of America history. Missing? There is no picture of Obama throwing out a pitch. Maybe because they didn't want a tie less, White Sox capped man involved. Or maybe because it was the Vice President throwing out the ball while Obama was performing the honors in Chicago? No matter, as this isn't about Obama, it's about the change of attitude I felt. The casualness prevailing now in America. Individualism vs team play. This was highlighted for me when later that day I saw a young woman in a White Sox's baseball jersey which read on the back, Obama. No one ever told me he played for the White Sox. Too many political speeches now include the word "I". I left the President's Club knowing I would never be able to see it again. The good part was I thought was not a bad thought.

This leads me to other issue of the day, Strasburg. I came to the complex on the Strasburg wagon, but I chose to walk home. Strasburg himself appears to be a nice, level headed boy. I only wish him the best. But the more Strasburg shirts I saw being sold/worn, the more hype I heard, the more I realized that he is now but a marketing tool, pawn for the Nationals higher ups, the less I remembered the Strasburg the pitcher. The latest word was the Nationals owner says it will be a crime if Strasburg isn't included in the All-Star game. Strasburg who has pitched less than 27 innings in the major leagues in the All-Star game. Does anyone remember Kerry Wood tieing the major league game strike out record in his rookie season? I only mention this because Strasburg is not the first. But his situation matches the times of America. He lives on speculation. Promise. Hope of the future. He made 15 million dollars before ever throwing a major league pitch. He sold out the complex before ever throwing a major league pitch. Now they want him in the All-Star game before throwing 27 innings of baseball. Lost is the fact in his third game he lost to Floyd who's record was 2-7. Strasburg left after 7, Floyd after 8. Same line. 1 run, 4 hits. Though the Jumbletron reminded me Strasburg just a major league record. He has the most strikeouts of any rookie pitcher in their first three games. Fluff. It didn't say anything about the his failed bunt attempt to advance a runner in a one run game situation. The next day it won't mention Peavy, the White Sox pitcher, who will throw a 3 hit, complete game shut out against the Nationals. Strasburg is just Strasburg right now and that is what it should be. He may be the next Ryan, Koufax, but today he is not. He is just another hard throwing young pitcher who should be judged on his game to game merits and enjoy that moment. I find it ironic he is compared to Mark Prior a previous first round pick. Are we that desperate we need to invest our emotions in what could be rather than what is? But this is the same country which is now 13 trillion dollars in debt, is living daily with an oil leak filling up the Gulf of Mexico and I can't find out why my neck hurts because I can't afford to go to the doctor since raising my deductible so my monthly payment would be a mere $507 a month instead of $678 a month.

After the game ended, it was announced there would be a fireworks show in twenty minutes. Again, I asked the stranger next to me, "Is it the 4th?" Ok, fine, fireworks. Better let the people in the Arcadia know. Or the people in the President's Club. What I didn't know was the best was being saved for last, as the following announcement informed everyone, in order to be able to see the fireworks it was suggested you move to the third base side. I thought this was strange and a bit of a logistical inconvenience considering there were 40,000 people in attendance. Aren't fireworks up in the sky? Can't we just look up? Silly me. If you didn't move, the Jumbletron would block your view. The Jumbletron, of course. Never underestimate the influence and power of the Jumbletron.

My favorite part of the Wizard of Oz is when Dorthy and friends come face to face with the great Oz. It's Toto who pulls back the curtain which exposes the common man behind the curtain controlling all the levers of Oz. Yet when he realizes he's been discovered, instead of immediately owning up to it, he yells over his loudspeaker "pay no attention to that man behind the curtain."

As I write this three days after being at the complex, the National debt is larger, there is more oil in the Gulf and Strasburg still has a chance of playing in the All-Star game.