Archive for the 'Hey there Sports fans' Category

The Greatest Spectacle in Racing

To say that Indy is more than a race may be cliche, but having been to Indy twice and other races too, I can attest that there is something different about it. You feel like you are seeing history being made.

Well, today we saw history. The 2nd hottest race on record, the most number of lead changes, and I managed to park in the 2nd road and exit the track in under 20 minutes. Yes, you know you are getting old when your parking spot becomes one of your highlights. What next? A post about gas prices?

After checking into our hotel yesterday afternoon, and taking what may have been the most refreshing hot shower in my life, 20Prospect Jr. and I spent the evening doing the most logical thing during a weekend at Indy. We went racing.

I found a local kart track where for 20 bucks we got 2 hours of non stop racing. Racing a go kart in 90 degree heat makes me appreciate what those drivers did today. They have to be amazing athletes to do what they do.

A rootbeer float from the Mug ‘n Bun plus some air conditioning and a another shower and dip in the pool made for a glorious end to the day. We turned into our cushy beds, and set the alarm for 5:33am, to coincide with the bomb announcing the gate to the track opening. (Another of Indy’s great traditions.)

We pulled into the camping lot a little after 6:30 am, using our camping pass for parking if nothing else. As I said, row 2, about 5 cars down from the exit. Literally within 100 yards of the gates.

As the sun and the temperature rose we spent the morning touring the track, keeping in the shade, and enjoying the misters set up around IMS. Despite the heat we managed to stay pretty comfortable, having our picnic lunch beneath a shade tree, before going in to take our seats a half hour before the race, to take in the pomp and circumstance. Jim Nabors, balloon launch, flyover, etc.

What followed was three hours of some of the best racing I’ve ever seen. And even if I wasn’t happy with the outcome, I can’t complain about the entertainment. I am already counting the days until next year’s race.

We have an accident in turn 2

Well that didn’t quite go as planned. When I bought the 2 day camping pass for Lot 3G, there were two things I hadn’t counted on. Mid 90 degree heat, and a band of drunken yahoos in the low key "family" campground.

The night started well enough, we found a spot in the back of the field alongside the creek, and beneath a shady cottonwood tree. We set up camp, fired up the grill and made dinner. After dinner we tossed a baseball around as we watched the sunset turn the thunderheads of a distant rain storm into cotton candy. We set up our shower tent and took some wonderful, refreshing showers to shake off the heat and sweat of the day.

As the sun was going down we spied a full grown beaver, paddling in the creek. Now this isn’t exactly wilderness. Our campground is squeezed between the race track and a refinery.

After dusk one of the campers began projecting highlights from previous races on the wall of a nearby building and we carried our lawn chairs down to enjoy the show. Getting back to our tent at 10pm was the first sign of trouble. The campers next to us, a group of guys aged 30 to 50, and their women, were playing music loud and drinking, and cussing profusely.

Now I’m no prude, so I expected a little of this. It was only 10pm, so we got ready for bed, and turned in. When midnight came and went, and every other group in the campground had turned in except our neighbors, I knew it was trouble.

The boy had already fallen asleep. Oh for the sound sleep of an eleven year old. One o"clock came and went, and by 2am the fireworks had been used up, and they decided to head out to the Strip Club down the street. Sigh… peace at last.

But I still couldn’t relax. The never ending stream of sirens in the distance didn’t help. The EMT’s and Police had a busy night.

They returned at 3:30am drunker, and more foul mouthed than ever. Sigh… that was when I took out my trusty phone and began searching for hotel rooms.

And they never did go to bed, although sometime around 5am I drifted off for an hour.

Morning dawned hot and we rose, cleaned up and walked to a nearby cafe for a big heaping stack of pancakes. They were still drinking at 7am when we left.

After breakfast we went back, packed up the car then walked to the track for the day. It was legends day, and the vintage cars were out on track. We sat thru the driver introductions, and toured the sponsor tents collecting free T-shirts and swag. We visited the museum and saw more cars than we could count. We browsed the tables and picked up some old Johnny Lightning hot wheel replicas of classic 70′s winners (10 cars for 20 bucks.. Gotta luv a deal).

Then we said goodbye and passed on waiting in lines for an hour for driver autographs. Maybe next time.

When we got back to the camp to get the car the drunks had finally passed out.

I honked as we left and considered waving goodbye with my middle finger, but took the high road instead. Right down the highway to the comfort of our hotel.

Which reminded me once again that air conditioning may be mankind’s crowning achievement. That and indoor plumbing.

And Nutella, obviously.

Hallowed grounds

Watching the vintage cars run laps

How I long for my Indiana home

Well… it ain’t worth longing for, but it’ll do. Thank god for the shade of that Cottonwood tree, and the nice steady breeze.

When I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash…

This is it. The weekend of the great Indianapolis Five Hundred Mile Race. 20 Prospect Jr. and I will celebrate by driving 625 miles to take part in the festivities. I’ve been planning this since last summer. Drive down Friday, spend Friday night and Saturday night camping in a tent across 16th Street from the race track, watch the race with 250,000 of our closest friends on Sunday, then limp home on Monday. The drive will take 10 hours. If only I could drive 220 mph, we’d be there in less than 3.

Forecast for Sunday? 94 degrees, and Sunny. Jimminy Christmas, thank god I’m bringing a portable shower tent. And water. Lots, and lots of water.

Here’s a clip to get you in the mood. Look for photo postings in the coming days.

Shaddup Boyd

One of the greatest things about Spring in Minnesota is sleeping with the windows open. After six months of huddling under blankets trying to stave off hypothermia, Spring arrives and we throw open the windows and let the cool, clear Canadian air blow through the house and take the stench out. However, after six months of hearing nothing but the quiet hum of the furnace as we sleep, the sudden riotous noise of birdsong takes a little getting used to. Despite rolling out of bed at 5:45 am each workday, I seldom need an alarm in April or May. The birds have usually woken me by 4 am when the first pink blush of sunrise begins to lighten the horizon. Last night however, I was awoken from a deep slumber at 2 am by the wild bacchanalian sounds of an avian orgy in the lilac bushes outside our window. I’m not an ornithologist (I just play one on TV) but I am not aware of any birds that sing their fool heads off in the middle of the night. All I can think is that our alcoholic neighbor spilled some of his hooch in the bird bath by accident, and the feathery little reptiles were tying one on.

Which is all a fancy way of saying I’m tired. However, nothing is going to get me down this morning, for yesterday afternoon the slugging droogs of Our Lady of the Subdural Hematoma drubbed the little rich kids from St. Paul, and put them out of the game in the 5th inning with the 10 run mercy rule. Yes, our Catholic Athletic Association has a mercy rule, at least when we play other Catholic schools. Of course when we play the Lutherans or Baptists we show no mercy. Our team is now 4-3 on the year, with only one game left. I couldn’t be prouder of the boys, they have been a joy to coach. If there is anything I have learned in my years of coaching youth sports it’s that it is not about the kids. Seriously, if it were about the kids the little porkpies would be laying in front of the TV playing their Nintendo’s. No, youth sports exists for the edification of middle age men like me who lament the passing of their youth, and need to compensate for the emasculation of their virility in the modern world. Nothing soothes the shame of picking up a package of Mini-pads at Target, as well as barking at 10 year olds like a drill sergeant until they burst into tears. Seeing the fear in their eyes when they drop a ground ball, and look toward the dugout, is one of those priceless Kodak type moments that pass all too soon.

So as Spring turns to summer, it is with bitter sweet feelings that I bid adieu to another season of coaching baseball. 20 Prospect Jr. will continue to play for his local little league team for another month, but my managing duties are over. Now I will have to be content with shouting obscenities at the umpire from the distance of the third base bleachers. Damn restraining orders.

Another date with Isabella Cuevas

It’s mornings like this that convince me that surely we have a benevolent, and loving God. Well, mornings like this and Nutella. Only a loving God could give us Nutella.

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Woo, woo, woo…

That I am a lover of nostalgia, has been well established by now. And if my sentimentality is not enough to turn your stomach, let me add my love of “authenticity” to the list of pretensions.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the trend for the past 20 years has been an increasing “corporatization” of minor league baseball. One by one the old wooden, small town ball parks have been disappearing, as MLB pulls their affiliates into larger markets and looks to squeeze as much cash as they can out of their farm system. I understand that the economics of minor league baseball have changed irrevocably. The romantic day’s of long bus rides to Podunkville, and cold showers are things of the past, and today’s prospects are treated far better than pro’s were 40, or 50 years ago. However, I really am having a hard time accepting the heavy handed MLB branding initiatives that are going on behind the scenes in the minor leagues.

Here’s a link to the only site that I can find that gives a comprehensive overview of the problem.

I don’t think I am being a conspiracy nut about this, but as you look at these different caps & logo designs it’s apparent that there is just a small handful of design templates, and one MLB appointed graphic design firm at work here.

Compare the artwork in the following three logos. I call this template, the “Ginormous Mascot with Club” design

Clinton Lumberkings

Clinton Lumberkings

Lake County Captains

Lake County Captains

Trenton Thunder

Trenton Thunder

Then there is the “Mascot Peeking Through Initials” design template:

My Beloved Muckdogs

My Beloved Muckdogs

Binghampton Bees / Mets

Binghampton Bees / Mets

Greensboro Grasshoppers

Greensboro Grasshoppers

Finally, we have the most egregious of the designs. “The Anthropomorphic Cap”

Lake Elsinore Storm

Lake Elsinore Storm

Orem Owls

Orem Owls

Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs

Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs

This last one is enough to give me feverish nightmares of the Amityville Horror.

I am happy to see that Minor League Clubs have begun to drop the practice of copying their MLB affiliates nicknames, and I applaud their attempts to somehow link the club to the uniqueness of the local community by choosing nicknames that somehow connect to the history of the area. However, the heavy handed, generic, corporate approach makes me want to retch. Do they think we are that stupid? Do they think we don’t notice, or care? Do they think we will be good little consumers and lap up whatever mass produced corporate pabulum they spew our way?

Apparently yes. The “Disneyfication” of Minor League Baseball is getting out of hand. Honestly, they are straining so hard to look “cute” and “marketable” it’s hard to take them seriously. If I were a player I would be embarrassed to wear any of these caps. Not even for ironic purposes, which as a Gen-xer, is firmly established to be the end all, be all of fashion statements (Case in point, in 2003 the AAA farm club of the Dodgers, in Albuquerque New Mexico nicknamed themselves the “Isotopes” after the fictional Springfield Isotopes from the TV show The Simpson’s, and experienced a huge increase in merchandise sales.)

Personally, I think the “Poochies” would have been more appropriate.

The Itchy, Scratchy, and Poochie Show!

The Itchy, Scratchy, and Poochie Show!

If MLB really wants to tie the teams to their communities, why can’t they let each organization choose it’s own name, its own logo, and its own look? Wouldn’t it be wiser to allow each team to contract with local graphic artists, and ad agencies to develop their own image instead of using a centralized, corporate overlord from MLB to squeeze them all through the sausage maker of MLB dictated branding guidelines? I think going with local control over branding would allow the teams to forge closer ties to local companies, who will become sponsors, and advertisers, and marketing partners in the community. The result would be not only better looking business, but better business.

I know, all of American life has become mass produced, franchised, and Walmarted into anonymity. You can drive from coast to coast eating at the same restaurant, sleeping in the same motel, and getting gas at the same gas station, so why should we expect anything different?

Sigh… There’s nothing wrong with a simple letter on a cap. It’s worked for over a hundred years, and it will likely work for a hundred more.

Pastorini bites the weenie

Rich Stadium

We didn’t attend many sporting events growing up, not so much because of a lack of money, more because Dad had a lack of patience. Nothing sent the original Mr. 20 Prospect over the edge faster than the gridlocked traffic getting into and out of the parking lots. For that reason, more than any other, I didn’t attend a professional sporting event until 1980 when St. Joe’s organized a parish excursion to a Buffalo Bills game.

It was the 4th game of the season, and it just so happened that this particular year was the first time in my lifetime that the Bills actually fielded a competitive team. They would eventually even make the playoffs, but that trip was organized long before, and with the parish providing round trip transportation on 2 school buses, it didn’t take much pleading to convince Dad to go to the game. So it was that we purchased a set of tickets, and set off for that eventful game against the Oakland Raiders.

Now one might think that a church organized excursion to a football game would be a wholesome family adventure, involving homemade lemonade, and the singing of songs on the bus. But this being 1980, one would be wrong. One of the most amazing things I have noticed as I have approached middle age, is how our society’s definition of acceptable public behavior has changed. Now a days public drunkenness is frowned upon. Back then, it was not only acceptable, it was the central purpose for large events like football games, and rock concerts, and church organized excursions were no exception.

Each of the two buses that we loaded into that morning came equipped with a half keg of beer in the back row. And even though we had just attended the 8 am Mass, people didn’t have any problem tapping into it on the drive up to Rich Stadium. The mood was festive, and the sense of anticipation palpable. I had never been to a big time football game before, and with the Bill’s hot start, all 80,000 seats had been sold for the game that day against the Raiders.

And what a glorious day it was. For the last weekend in September the weather was lovely, with achingly clear blue skies. By the time we arrived at the game, the temperature had already risen into the 80’s. The gravel parking lots outside Rich were full of tailgater’s, and the smell of hot dogs, and hamburgs’ filled the air. Total strangers were friendly and talkative in the lines getting into the stadium, and everyone was jovial. It was apparent even to a 12 year old that over 50% of them were already three sheets to the wind. As the game began the Bills jumped out to an early lead, and it quickly became a laugher. The “Bermuda Triangle” of Smerlas, Haslet and Shane Nelson was all over Dan Pastorini, and after every touchdown the crowd was on its feet singing along to “Talking Proud”.

But it isn’t what went on down on the field that I remember most. It was the view in the stands. This being the end of the 70’s the place was full of inebriated long hairs and resembled a scene from Woodstock. My friend Chris and I were more entertained by the drunk in the row in front of us who kept drinking wine from his bolo, waving a large anatomically correct stuffed Buffalo, and shouting “Pastorini bites the weenie” at the top of his lungs, than we were with the football game. I can remember going to the bathroom at halftime, and being amazed to see grown men peeing in the sinks, and a passed out drunk laying in the urinal trough. But most amazing of all, was how people went about their business as if this was normal.

After the game, it took a while for our parishioners to find their way back to the bus. We played catch with the drunks while we waited to leave. On the way home, the grownups in the back did their best to kill the keg before we got back to Batavia, and their slurred banter was the entertainment. This was a side of folks that I didn’t usually see sitting in the pews on Sunday morning, and it made quite an impression. Monsignor Schwarz sat at the front of the bus, and didn’t seem too greatly disturbed by the proceedings, so neither were we.

I’m not sure at what point this type of public behavior became unacceptable, but somewhere along the way decorum, and decency took over. In this age of Corporate Sports such behavior isn’t tolerated and it doesn’t take much to bring down the security guards, and get the rowdies ejected. In fact, they even flash phone numbers on the jumbo-tron for narc’ing on folks.

Maybe it’s the money involved, or maybe our litigiousness has made us more wary. Or maybe we have just matured a little bit in the last 30 years. Whatever the reason, there are few places left that a person can see humanity letting it all hang out. The infield at a NASCAR race springs to mind, and I have heard stories about Mardi-Gras that make my experiences pale in comparison. This may sound odd, but in some ways I think we have lost something. Maybe if we let our hair down more, and were more tolerant of such debauchery, we wouldn’t have half of the population taking anti-depressants, or seeing counselors to work through our anxiety. Then again, maybe it’s our past that has us so screwed up in the first place ;-) Something for your counselor’s to figure out. Let me know what they have to say.

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