Play Ball
Last year ten days into
our trip we’d visited 7 of the 13 ballparks on that particular itinerary. Our first one on this trip was in San Diego at
Qualcomm Park—a day game with the last place Padres facing Barry Bonds’ San
Francisco Giants. We started out the
morning lazily and buzzed around the inland section of LaJolla looking for a
place like Breugger’s Bagels. Thinking
LaJolla’s demographics were perfect for such a place, I was surprised that
after a few minutes of driving around we didn’t fine one, so we settled for an
Albertson’s right near the Blockbuster we’d visited the evening before to rent
a DVD. Grabbing a few apples and a few
Krispy Kremes, we headed out back to the hotel.
On the way, I stopped for some gas, paying the most I’d ever paid in my
life -- $2.09 a gallon for premium. The
fill-up tipped the $40 mark.
To me, baseball parks are
at their best at twilight and during darkness.
The hot summer sun gets an opportunity to cool down a bit, and the green
grass seems to get even greener under the artifical light. I didn’t remember that this first game was a
day game, but I am sure I knew it at some point back in March when I secured
tickets.
This will be the last year
of baseball at Qualcomm Park, formerly known as Jack Murphy Stadium. Jack Murphy was a well-known sportswriter in
the San Diego area for years—brother of forever Met broadcaster Bob Murphy, but
a few years ago Qualcomm beamed some wireless money into the coffers of Padre
and Charger ownership, and without hesitation, and much to the dismay of
traditionalists, it was “Get back, Jack”, thus the Murphy name was relegated to
a monument at the east end of the stadium.
Qualcomm is laid
back. The parking is easy, and
uncrowded. Once you’re in for your eight
bucks, they pretty much let you choose your spot. As a typical Easterner, I chose a spot right
near the exit, so as to spend as little time as possible exiting the stadium
after the game, which would prove to be a moot point, because only 24,000 fans
were there, enough to make the parking lots look sparsely peppered with shiny
California autos by the time the game started.
Fajitas seemed to be the tailgate menu item de semana. After we walked a 270 around the stadium,
looking for the right picture angle, I announced to the boys that I didn’t
remember the chirp sound of locking the door to my car, which I’ve forgotten to
hear now a few times now on the trip. I
think the key needs a new battery, because I’d prefer to be able to hit that
lock button from further out than about 10 feet from the car. So, deciding we could just keep walking to
get back to the car to check, we saw that one end of the walkway around the
stadium was shut down to pedestrians. I
nicely asked the security guy if he’d mind letting us through, and in typical
laid back fashion he agreed, saying he had nothing else to do. When I asked him about Petco Park and if was
to be ready for next season’s beginning, he knew nothing about it. Funny, how I just assume that someone working
for the Padres organization, or even someone being subcontracted by them, would
know the first thing about baseball.
Meanwhile, Parker
displayed his usual keen ear and eye for absurdity in baseball marketing—or
marketing of any kind—as he was quick to point out how absurd it was hear
“Padres Baseball, Takin’ You There!” repeated every six seconds on the PA
system as we rounded the perimeter of the park.
The only place the Padres had taken anyone this year was on a journey to
be firmly entrenched in the depths of National League Western Division, with no
hope in sight for a reprieve. I pointed
out to Parker that even more ridiculous than the slogan itself was the fact
that not only one, but a committee of people must have sat around a big table
and patted each other on the back for creating and approving this empty
marketing babble.
We lollygagged to our
seats, which were on the “view” level.
This is a term that baseball people came up with concurrent with the
development of all the new baseball parks to replace the peasant class ring of
“upper level”. We baseball fans would be
much more likely to fork over our hard-earned dollars to support a .272
hitter’s $10 million annual salary if we thought we had a “view”, rather than
being relegated to the “upper” tier of a stadium. Good move.
My strategy was to buy the cheaper seats in the parks of the less
attended teams, which in this case were ten bucks a throw. Where there were fewer fans, there were more
opportunities to move once we got there.
In this case, the seats were actually great, being on the first level of
the View Level, so no one was in front of us, also with lots of legroom and
room to place food in front of us. After
an inaugural 2003 hot dog (technically not even close, since I’d been to a few
Met games already), we decided to move back to where the shade was, with even
more of a “view”.
The difference between
being in the direct sunlight and in the shade was the difference in wondering
why I chose a day game to relaxing and nodding my head in the feeling that yes,
now I remember why I love these baseball trips.
Once we got into the shade, all the sights and sounds of baseball became
clear—that crack of the bat at Qualcomm only a true baseball fan could
appreciate was as crisp as I’d ever remembered, (even though there weren’t too
many cracks to cheer about). The sight
of major league players stretching and playing catch before a game in their
fresh uniforms… the sight of categorical major league leaders on the scoreboard
before the game… the National Anthem being played—in this case with two
sections full of Marines saluting the flag from the left field mezzanine level…
the sounds of a double play being made, with the collective crescendo of the
event taking place all in four second’s time… all these things that make going
to a baseball game an experience like no other can help to wash away all the
ugliness of what money has always tried to do to the game, but still
hasn’t—YET. All the way from my
childhood, I still have distinct visions of baseball parks. Two that come to mind, from opposite ends of
the spectrum were first, on my birthday going to see the Yankees vs. the Red
Sox at Yankee Stadium during Carl Yastrzemski’s triple crown year, leaning
against the rails and yelling, “Hey Carl, it’s my birthday, to which his
reaction was to toss me the ball he had in his hand. I later lost that ball in the woods one day,
using it cause I was out of baseballs and we just had to throw something. Another one was the discomfort of seeing
Richie Allen warming up before a Mets game, playing catch in his bluish Phillie
uniform right in front of his dugout with a cigarette dangling from his
mouth. Looking back, I wonder if in
today’s game he could have his contract voided because of some clause that
indicates he’s in less than optimum shape by smoking cigarettes. I guess some things have changed for the
better, but they don’t seem to be as noticeable as the negative things.
Perhaps Hot Dogs weren’t
meant for Southern California, because these Weinershnitzel tubes were only
slightly better than the worst of last year’s lot—Dodger Stadium’s Farmer John
variety. They’re steamed and pretty much
flavorless. Most all of us agreed they
were pretty bad, and while we’ve stopped numbering them, I myself gave them a 3
on our scale that uses 10 as the standard being Shea Stadium’s
grilled-on-rollers tasty Kahn’s franks.
(There’s no place like home). 
The game was basically a pitchers' contest, but not enough of one to notice the nuances of any one great
pitcher's performance. Every time Barry
Bonds came to the plate, he got jeered as loudly as a San Diego crowd could
muster on a lazy Sunday afternoon. A few
hits were scattered here and there, Barry Bonds was walked with a man on third
and two out, an obvious strategy which, in this instance, paid off for the
Padres. Probably the biggest play of the
game came in the eighth inning when Jesse Orosco came in specifically to face
Barry Bonds, a great matchup of veterans (Orosco being the oldest player in
baseball by far, still hanging on 17 years AFTER his noteworthy contribution to
my Mets’ last championship. Did I say
17? Wow.) Bonds fouled off a few, found three balls to
take, and on a 3-2 count launched one high and deep to left field, creating a
loud roar, only to have his cocky home run trot ended with a loader roar as his
shot was hauled in at the wall. Orosco
did his job in keeping the score tied at 2, and he walked proudly to the dugout
as I joined with the crowd in giving him an ovation. Orosco’s nameless replacement subsequently
gave up the losing run on the next pitch.
Such is baseball—no matter how bad a particular team is, the game is
simply a series of matchups and play execution, and in each war, there are
numerous battles. In this case, while
Bonds’ team won the war, the small victorious battles in keeping Bonds from
having any impact on the game gave Padre fans some reward for coming out to the
ballpark.
The game ended with a 3-2
Giant victory just short of 5 o’clock.
After an easy exit from the parking lot, we found Old Town San
Diego. As luck would have it, we found a
rare parking spot just in front of Fred’s, a Mexican joint which lured us in
with attractive tableside dining, perfect for the 75 degree San Diego air. The fare at Fred’s was reasonably priced and
tasty. I ordered three soft
tacos—lobster, shrimp and swordfish, and after eating one, just picked out the
seafood from the others. Austin was more
than happy with his sizzling lobster fajita (we’d already had authentic Mexican
a few times, so we were justified in going a little Tex-Mex here). Parker wasn’t jumping up and down with the
bean content in his chicken burrito, so we ordered him a taco which worked much
better. Diana, another extremely pretty
waitress, excluded the charge for the burrito from the check. I took the opportunity to show my
appreciation by giving her an affectionate hand on the shoulder as I told her
that she really didn’t have to do that.
After dinner, we toured
the Gaslight district in downtown San Diego, and then headed up the coast
toward La Jolla through Mission Beach, was akin to Venice up in LA. Homes were tightly packed taking up every
possible geometric angle. I am sure even
these homes were now commanding pretty good prices, though. The area had more clubs, coffee bars, surfer
joints and psychic readers than the ritzy La Jolla area to which we were
headed. About five miles south of La
Jolla, the smell of big money began to float in the air and up the coastline. The houses directly on the Pacific were
nothing short of stunning. When you see
this, and realize what kind of income it takes to build and maintain these
houses, you begin to realize just how much wealth there is in this country,
especially when one takes into consideration just how many homes there are like
this on coastlines and inland locations throughout the U.S. Suffice it to say that on the surface if I
had the means, this is an area in which I could see living. Of course, this observation was based solely
on real estate and climate, and had nothing to do with people.
We got back to La Jolla
just as complete darkness set in, and called it a full day.
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