3 Great Nights of Baseball!

The recently-concluded 3-game series between the Arizona Diamondbacks and the San Francisco Giants marked my seventh, eighth and ninth appearances at "Ballpark by the Bay."  That may be a lifetime record; it is certainly the most games I have attended in one season as an adult.  My thanks to Tigger, Pat and Red Sox Chick for coming up with tickets for me.  It's getting entirely too expensive for someone who doesn't have a high-paying job to get to the games, even in the bleachers.  (I've got a big rant about that, but that's for another article).

Going to a ball game is really a mixed bag for me, especially now that I have MLB.tv, and not just because watching on computer is cheaper than going to the park.  It's because I get more out of the game by watching it on the tube, with the centerfield camera shots, replays and commentary.  (I tried taking a radio to the ballpark on a few occasions, but that didn't work for me, primarily because on the more difficult plays for which I wanted the radio to help with scorekeeping, the crowd noise drowned out the radio).  I'm not such a total geek that I am into sabermetrics such as VORP, R27, and replacement value, but I like watching how a pitcher is pitching a batter, where the catcher is setting up, and how the batter is swinging, especially if that batter is Eric Byrnes.

On the other hand, it's good to get outdoors once in awhile and away from the computer.  On Sunday afternoon July 1, during batting practice for the third game of the second series, I stood at the left-field wall taking in the sunny weather, and noticing my head was clearer than it had been in days.  Being in front of the screen practically all day, be it for work, watching baseball, or engaging in other computer activities, can make one's brain foggy. I felt fine. Little did I know that I would collapse at work three days later.  Having the September series to go to gave me a goal in recuperating.  I'm not one of those "life is a journey" kind of people.  I need definite goals and knowing that series was coming up helped me to work on getting better.

And of course, going to the park meant having a chance to meet Eric Byrnes, but more on that later.

The Giants have a couple of cages in which you can test your pitching speed and hit a few soft toss balls for a reasonable price.  Much to my dismay, I couldn't throw the balls far enough to make them reach the radar gun.  But the hitting was another story.  I'm 52 years old, health-compromised, and I literally haven't touched a bat in 30 years.  The bat at the stadium is a plastic affair and the pitches coming from the machine were a little low -- like Byrnesie, I like the high strike -- the cage is really for smaller kids although anyone can participate.  I made contact eight out of 10 times.  That the hits would have been weak grounders back to the box had I been playing an actual baseball or softball game meant nothing. It just felt really good to have a bat in my hands again after all this time.

I had a Polish link the first night, a bratwurst the second night, and a hot dog the third night, each with yellow mustard and onions.  (Yeah, I know, sodium and cholesterol.  But I don't go to the ballpark every night, and I don't eat those things at home).  By far, the hot dog was the best. The Polish link, which I bought before the game started, was dried out and overcooked.  The bratwurst was OK, but a little greasy, kind of bland, and the most expensive.  The hot dog was the least expensive, and it was freshly cooked and just right. 

Stadium photographers took my picture each night, but I didn't buy any of them.  Paying $9.99 for a 4 x 6 snapshot like you can get at a local drug store is really a bit much.  Lee Tinsley, first-base coach of the Arizona Diamondbacks, was shagging flies in left field during batting practice.  Just before he went back to the dugout to get ready for the first game, he gave me a baseball. It is a lovely ball with only one scuff mark. Tigger said that those kinds of balls are called "pearls."

After the second game, I stood outside the media and visiting players entrance with two other Diamondbacks fans and we caught the attention of Arizona broadcaster Daron Sutton.  When he came over to talk to us, I told him to look in the left field bleachers the next day because I would have a sign.  In Arizona, Daron is always exhorting people to bring signs to the ballpark.  I was true to my word. 

The A's in Anybody Anytime approximated as best as I could the Diamondbacks' "A" logo, given my minimal drawing talent and fact that I was doing it while sitting on the sidewalk outside the stadium's Marina Gate. Heeeyyy! and Gaaasss! are Mark Grace words. The first he uses when the Pro-Trade win probability figures are flashed on the screen. Gaaasss! is Grace's description of a fastball. "Let's get some runs!" is Daron Sutton's call, especially in the latter part of a game when the D'Backs are down but the starter has had a quality start or the bullpen has held the line after a poor start to give the Snakes a chance to slither back into the game. I did not get to talk to Daron after the third game so I don't know if he ever saw the sign.  Did anyone watching the game on TV see it?

The Diamondbacks took 2 of 3, and they should have swept.  They left too many men on base in the second game.  But it was the best result of the three series they played here, and just in time. I saw some interesting things.  Emilio Bonifacio, a September call-up (second baseman), got his first major league RBIs; Jailen Peguero, a rookie relief pitcher who's been up and down with the club couple of times this year, got his first major league win.  Jeff Salazar, a waiver claim who was with the big club earlier but was sent down in the numbers game and then called back, hit his first home run of the season and only the second of his career.  It was a bomb to right center where I've seen Barry Bonds hit a few.

I listened to the bleacher creatures rag on Eric Byrnes: "What's the matter with Byrnesie?  He's a bum!  What's the matter with 22?  He's a bum!"  They got on his case for walking around with his glove off between pitches.  "Circles!  Circles!" they cried out.  And "Put on your glove and get in the game!  Focus!" They rode him especially hard in the second game; a guy in the next section over in left field was yelling so hard early in the game that I thought (and hoped) he'd bust a vocal chord.  Later on he got himself a sign that said, "BOO!"  That might have been because, in the second game, Byrnesie went three for four with a stolen base, so they didn't like that at all.  Naturally, I loved it.

But I've saved the best for last.  What made this series the best for me was the opportunity to interact with Eric Byrnes.  I had first met him during the April series when he waved at me, signed my cap, and complimented the latest edition of the Byrnesblog jersey, which has a picture of him from spring training on it.

In June-July, he waved at me in the stands again.  I'm just about the lone voice out there there who says nice things to him while the others around me take potshots at him for not being Barry Bonds... or Marvin Benard.

But this time was special.  He was taking fielding practice the first night and exchanging banter with the boo birds in section 139 (left-center, where Tigger and I usually sit), when Tigger mentioned me and he asked if I was there.  I said, "Yes, I'm here."  And he came over and said to me, "Do you remember that letter you sent me in the spring?"  I had sent a letter to Tucson Electric Park in March.  Or more accurately, a friend of mine mailed it for me because I never made it to the post office.  I had intended to go to the post office after I finished eating lunch at a local restaurant.  But I suffered a TIA at the restaurant and ended up in hospital instead.  I kept a sharp eye on the package that I wanted mailed to Eric, and when my friend met me at the hospital, I gave it to her.  The package contained a letter to Eric and a copy of my poetry book, "Near the Ragged Edge of Earth," which is dedicated to a local political activist and to Eric.

Eric told me that the suggestions I had made in the letter for ways for him to get better actually helped this year, although he acknowledged that he had to get better still.  (That desire to always improve as part of why I like him so much).  He said that he showed the letter to an advance scout and the scout said that I was 100% right and that I really knew my baseball.  That phrase came up several times as he signed autographs for fans in left field.  Eric must've said at least three times that I really know my baseball.  What a tremendous compliment, coming from a major leaguer!  He said he keeps the letter by his bed and has re-read it 4 times. He also said the book was "awesome." Then he signed my glove.  (Having a web cam that takes still pictures is convenient). 

Tigger asked him when he was going to give me an interview for my blog.  And he said I knew that he'd give me an interview (huh?) and he said to meet him when he gets to the park early.  He said two o'clock.

The next morning was crazy.  I was asked to file a headline for Free Speech Radio News and was unable to put it off to the next day as I had hoped.  I got it in just four minutes before the noon deadline because the person I wanted to interview was not available earlier.  That messed up my plans to buy a single-use camera; I did go to two  drugstores, one in Oakland and one in San Francisco, but the lines were too long and I did not want to be late for meeting Eric.  I  managed to buy batteries for my recorder when I got to Embarcadero in downtown San Francisco and I hopped on the light rail for the short ride to the stadium and quickly reviewed the questions I had planned to ask him.  Because of the headline, I had not had the chance that morning to really think through some great questions.  This was only my second interview ever with a sports figure, the first coming a few months ago when I spoke to 1974 Cy Young Award winner Dr. Mike Marshall about pitching injuries, and that was an interview of a totally different flavor.

I got to the driveway of the visitors entrance at Third and King at about 1:50 p.m. I stood on the side of the driveway opposite the few autograph hounds who were also waiting for early arrivals.  Tigger came along about 15 minutes afterwards.  And we waited.  And waited.  After a while, Tigger was sure we had been stood up and she was furious.  But he did show up.  About an hour late, but he showed up.  And how!  He drove up in his cool, gleaming, steel-gray-with- metallic-speckles Corvette convertible, top down, with his pretty fiancee, Tara, riding shotgun.

And since he signed that $30 million contract extension, his hair no longer looks like a used Brillo pad.  It's styled and it looked like it had been washed recently.  He wore black wraparound sunglasses, a gold shirt tails out, light slacks, a very pale beige.  At least that's the way I remember it.  I can't tell you what shoes he wore because I didn't look down that far.  He and Tara, who I've since discovered is a former Miss California, looked like the very picture of the California beach lifestyle in that Corvette.  A Beach Boys soundtrack should have been playing as they drove up.  After he got out of the car, walked over to a garbage can to throw out a plastic water bottle, came back to kiss Tara goodbye, and she drove the car away, we shook hands and he was all set to talk to me.

I nearly blew it.  I asked him my first question and he was just starting to answer when I look down at the recorder and noticed that while the power was on, it was in pause mode and not running.  So I quickly stopped him and got the machine started for real.  (That happens from time to time with MiniDisc recorders; not catching it is a typical rookie mistake and since I haven't been out in the field more than twice in the last three years, I'm back to being a rookie).  We got started up again and went through without a hitch. Click here to download it. If you have Quicktime, it will start in just a couple of seconds. It's a little over 8 minutes. I'll arrange for streaming as soon as I can get hold of some out-of-the-box code that this blog won't rewrite when I try to save this file. Anyone out there have some?

I made sure I saved the recording, and when I got home close to midnight that night, I put it in my computer.  And for a second I stared at the sound waves scarcely believing that I had Eric Byrnes' voice on tape, that he answered questions for me as he would any other sports reporter. Then I played it back -- yeah, it was all there -- and that was Eric Byrnes talking.

He also took two pictures, one with Tigger and one with me, with Tigger's conventional film camera.  When she gets it developed, I'd add the picture to the blog.   Tigger called Saturday afternoon to say the pictures did not come out. Seems there was something wrong with the last few shots, including one or two she took the last time she used the camera. C'est domage!

Eric and I shook hands again as he left.  "Thanks for everything," he said.  Tigger later said that the autograph hounds on the other side of the driveway were staring at me like "Who the **** is she?"  Well, if they'd check out MLBlogs, they'd find out!

Eric had gone 0-4 the night before.  But on that second night, he went 3-4, and got stolen base number 45, off Benji Molina, of whom Eric has spoken with great respect for his ability to throw out would-be base stealers.  Eric's first hit that night established a new personal best for total bases.

As exciting as getting the interview and the photograph was, he found a way to top that on the last day.  I went down by the visiting dugout during batting practice, in the hopes of handing him another letter.  This time it was mostly good wishes for the rest of the year and the playoffs, a couple of more observations I have of his play, best wishes to him and Tara for their upcoming marriage, stuff like that.  When he came into the dugout after playing catch to loosen up his arm, the very act that inspired the poem that got me to thinking it was time to publish a book, I handed him the letter.  He wanted to know what was in it this time, but I didn't want to get into all of that, so I just said, "Stuff about your fielding." And he said, "What?  I'm fielding good." I turned away and started walking back up the stairs.  I had autographs; I had my interview; I had the knowledge that he had gotten and appreciated the letter and book I sent him in March, and I had just put another letter into his hands.  So I figured it was time to leave him to the other fans who wanted his autograph and picture.  But then I heard my name called, and I turned around.  I was a little surprised that anyone down there knew my name, but it was Eric.  And he said, "I've got a baseball for you.  How do you spell your name?  K-E-L-I-A?"  I said,"two L's. K-E-L-L-I-A"  and walked back down the stairs as he inscribed the baseball.  When he finished, I took it, said thank you, and went back up the stairs.  Here it is:

I've kept it close by ever since.  It's gone to work with me and it's gone for a walk.  It has an honored place on my altar when I'm home.  (I'm Wiccan. Members of that religion typically have an altar at home). I have the ball in my hands right now.  (I use a dictation program for long writing projects). He really didn't have to do that and I sure wasn't looking for it.  It's really nice to know he connects my name with my face.  And if, in fact, anything I've written to him has indeed helped him become a better player this year, well, then we are even.  He's been more help than he could ever know during the various health crises I have had lately.

Eric saw my sign.  I brought it to the left-field wall when he came out to play defense the first time.  I could see him reading it, then he tugged on the bill of his cap in acknowledgment. Later in the game, he got an RBI, the first one he's ever gotten in my presence.  He was hoping to get four over the course of the last two games of the series, but it was not to be.  The RBI was on a sac fly with the bases loaded.  The fly ball was to left-center field, not far from where I was sitting.  A bit less height and a little more drive and he would have had his four RBI, his first grand slam.  When he came out to left for defense after that at-bat, I shouted to him that one beats none and that I would take it.  He signaled to me that he just missed it, and I nodded my head to let him know that I knew that.  But I know some day that grand slam will happen.  Maybe even in this year's playoffs.  In the meantime, four hits (.296, 168 hits), a stolen base (45), an RBI (82), and a run scored (95), in a series that his team won (83-64, in first place in the division by 4 games over the Padres) is just fine.

Go, Byrnesie!
Go, Diamondbacks!

ByrnesBlogger1