Spring Training in Arizona

After spending the greater part of my life celebrating a dogged love affair with the game of baseball, it goes without saying that March is easily the most joyous month on my calendar. Most people identify March with the NCAA's and I think that's completely reasonable. The annual madness that is held on the hardwood splashes out of the sports section and into the cultural consciousness, riveting the most casual of fans. Saint Paddy's Day slowly becomes a greenish blur of drunken subway rides and busted brackets. "Kiss me, I'm Irish and I just took a leak in the alley" are the wobbly sentiments of a generation just trying to keep their balance until the next game starts in a crowded bar at noon. And don't get me wrong, I love March for those moments of purest drama, of clutch performances, of dare-to-be-great scenarios playing out above. However, I believe that the underscored sentimentality of Spring Training is the true anchor for sports fans. Those who spent their formative years kneading sweaty leather gloves and spitting sunflower seeds. This month marks the rebirth of the American year; the month when the snow retreats back up mountainsides and dusty sandlots across the nation once again capture the imagination of a new crop of lifetime practitioners. Simply put, basketball is what riles us up, baseball is what calms us down...

To me, Spring Training has always been an abstract idea. When I was in grade school, I could grasp the concept of a glorified try-out. So that's what it was. The stars show up, shag some fly balls, play 18 holes of golf and get ready for the season. The young guys are bundles of nerves in pinstripes, feeling the exquisite sting of every booted groundball and backwards K. I could understand this because I too knew the how it felt during Little League "talent assessments" to be backpedaling hopelessly for flyballs while rows of Dad's with clipboards looked on. When I reached high school, my cynical Cubs side overtook things. I toted my Sports Illustrated and Tribune Sports onto the EL and spoke with my fellow comrades about false hopes and dashed opportunity. Cursing names like Mel Rojas and Rodney "Don't Call Me Randy" Myers each Spring. However, now that I'm older (and presumably wiser) I've gained the clarity that can only accompany honest perspective: Spring Training is for the fans. The ultimate priming of the pump. The unmeasurable serenity that one can only find at a ballpark after a bleak winter. The immortal Harry Carey put it best, "It's the fans that need spring training. You gotta get 'em interested. Wake 'em up and let 'em know that their season is coming, the good times are gonna roll." And I know, I know, this ground has been treaded upon before, nothing new here, but I still think it's paramount when considering what makes baseball so timeless: the fanbases, young and old, in the sun, collecting outs on a scorecard, talking that one common denominator...

***

TK, Joey, Jay, Easy, Ryan and I arrive at Scottsdale Stadium while the National Anthem is playing. The Giants are hosting the Cubs on this 90 degree day, not a cloud in the sky. As a matter of introductions - Joey and Easy are Giants guys, Ryan and Jay like the A’s and TK and I hold down the Cub fort. All are TK's high school buddies from Marin, all around 31, all good sorts. I know them mostly from BORP’s weekly wheelchair basketball scrimmages in Berekley when I used to live out in the Bay Area. Each one of these guys posses that good-natured California wit that belies a group that, once assembled, is constantly on the verge of unabashed revelment. Tough to keep up with on a night out, tougher to legitimately crack up. Okay, enough about those clowns.

We make our way to the bleachers through the mezzanine, a sea of Cubbie blue and Giant orange move by us in the opposite direction. TK and I try to hide our overwhelming excitement, but that gives way when we pass this dry erase board:
The starters are playing, Zambrano is pitching and Barry is batting in the three hole. Perma-grins all around.

We settle into our "seats" on the grassy knoll in right-center. The TOP of the first inning lasts and lasts. Ten batters, six runs, a couple errors. You can't really blame Matt Morris, the ball is eating up some of his core defenders. Anyway, we already have some highlights: With two on and no outs (when things were still salvageable) a can-of-corn is lazily launched to left field. Barry settles under it, raises his glove and then... raises his elbows, covers his head and moves hesitantly to-and-fro... the ball drops a few yards behind him, another run scores. The crowd is an awkward blend of high fives and people crouched over with their head in their hands. Personally, I was excited about this play for a couple reasons. Obviously, it's funny to see an eight-figure 43-year-old losing a ball in the sun. That's intrinsically funny. But even more than that, it brings up something which I don't think gets enough attention. Bonds was an elite fielder in the 90's amassing 8 Gold Gloves while crashing into walls for third outs. He was a beast out there. Now? He can barely run, nor does he have any urge to. He's given his body's best years to this game (and most likely to synthetic substances) and there's nothing left but a record to chase. In Moneyball, the overall value of a player is determined by how many run shares that player helps produce in relation to how many runs they concede in the field. Unless the MLB institutes co-ed softball rules and lets the Giants stick a tenth player in left-center, that Chevron logo in the gap at Pac Bell park is getting peppered. Barry will break the record, but I think it will come at the price of a 70-win season. I'm worried for the sanity of my Giants friends at this point.

Ok, still in the TOP of the first inning. Zambrano comes up, two outs, two on. He takes his two big cuts, both misses. If this were four years ago, Chip Carey would pretend that Big Z is trying to corkscrew himself into the earth as Steve Stone would pretend that Chip was funny. The next pitch Zambrano unloads on an 0-2 curveball which would have landed in the centerfield basket in Wrigley. Instead, it smacks against the top of the wall and shoots away from Winn as our lumbering pitcher is rounding second base. He realizes this and kicks it into another gear, mentally preparing his "I can't believe I hit an inside-the-park homerun in Spring Training either" speech. Then, between second and third:

Never have I heard so much cheering instantly morph into gasps of horror. Every Cubs fan immediately thought, "Did our Ace just dislocate his shoulder while trying to stretch a triple into a homerun in Spring Training?". Flashbacks of Prior, Nomar and Lee going down danced in our heads. Luckly, he hopped up and sheepishly jogged into third. Jumping up and down on the base to let the crowd know he was okay. Once Soriano made the last out, I went directly to the beer stand. Just... Wow. Anyway, Big Z capped off the BOTTOM of the first inning with strike outs of Bonds and Feliz. He's in midseason form, pointing to the sky, foaming at the mouth, yelling at himself.

Since we had a six run cushion after one frame, I decided to roam around watching the game in different places. For the second inning, I stood next to a kindly old man standing by himself in full Giants regalia. We were right next to the rightfield foul pole and we talked about pitching staffs. He likes Lowry and Cain but is worried about Morris. "Gives up too many homeruns," he says. He thinks Zito will either be a resounding success or a colossal failure because of the contract. "There's no middle ground with money like that," as he pounds more water, eyes darting around the field like he a bench coach. I didn't talk much, just asked questions because I could tell he was a little put off by the first inning, but he was exceedingly warm and excited to dole out his information. I had the feeling this wasn't his first Spring Training. That's what I learned quickly in the Arizona sun, you don't understand March baseball unless you make the trip. The good vibes are almost disarming. I saw two sixty-year-old men walking by laughing at a joke, one wearing a Cardinals hat, the other a Tigers hat. Families rolling around amidst surprisingly restrained drunk Cubs fans; kids transfixed by their heroes while fathers wore broad smiles of satisfaction that the family trip wasn't to Disneyworld this year.

The generated mist started to rain down on the infield seats as the second inning concluded. I wiped the sweat from my brow and decided it's time for a stroll around the nice seats. I nod to the kindly old man and wish him luck. He tells me that my team could probably use it more (you know, in the cosmic sense). I think he's right.

The third inning starts with Zambrano doubling to left. He's the best. The requisite jokes begin from nearby fans, "Are they going to leave him in for the cycle?" and "He should be our DH for interleague games." I'm mildly amused. Only mildly.

The fourth inning starts and I have a moment of Zen. I've got my second beer and a pocketful of sunflower seeds. I've snuck into a seat on the 3rd base line and I'm taking notes while the game moves about before me. It doesn't seem like a big league baseball game psychologically at this point. There are hundreds of millions of dollars out on the field and all I can think about is the simplicity of it. The smaller, more intimate park coupled with the fact that these games don't count makes it almost seem like a neighborhood game. Men are walking around selling bottles of beer out of ice-filled buckets. Kids are gliding by on those gym shoes that have wheels on the heel. The stadium is bordered by endless earth tones, gorgeous outcroppings of desert rock. The euphoria of the game in the purest form. Damn, a couple is standing here giving me the ole stinkeye. I better move.

The fifth inning begins with the Cubs up 7-2. I decide to walk around the mezzanine to find TK and the gang. I get about halfway there and I hear over the loudspeakers, "Now batting, number 25, Barry Bonds". I scurry down an entranceway along with a handful of others. Cheers, Boos, everything inbetween. People on tippy-toes to see him swing the bat. I've got to give it to him, he still has "it". I used to think Bonds was such a polarizing figure and either you hated him or you were a Giants fan. However, whenever he's in the batters box, Barry Bonds has a galvanizing force on everyone. Watching history, greatness, whatever is still one of the most enthralling things in sports no matter what package it's in.

Jeff Samarja pitched the 5th and 6th innings giving up five baserunners but yielding no runs. I'm impressed with his fastball and quick motion towards the plate. He has a little trouble putting guys away after getting ahead of them in the count, but he's got plenty of time to work on that. Basically, he "looks" like a Major League pitcher, but then again, so did Todd Van Poppel. In all seriousness though, I hope they put him in Double-A ball and fast track him into the show. I think he has a chance of being a very capable middle reliever when all is said and done. Remember I said that. Anyways, the game ended in a Cubs 10-5 victory. I laughed, I cried (sunscreen in my eyes), I got drunk. It was better than ten Superbowl XLI's. Can't wait til next year... I mean, this year. Go Cubbies.