Where have you gone baseball?

When I was growing up, baseball (and a few other sports) was something my family could do together.  It wasn't a perfect context by any means.  But, we could usually watch the Braves and be ok for a few hours.

I've always held onto baseball.  I lived in DC pre-Nationals, so I didn't adopt a second team in my time there.  When I moved to L.A., I adopted Honey's Angels (after I met Honey, that is) and continued to root for the Braves.

When I was in graduate school, I had a hard time my first summer finding a job.  I finally landed one with a company that did SAT tutoring in high school students' homes.  I have never before (or since) had such an up-close view of affluent L.A.  Before I started the tutoring (which was mostly a late summer/fall activity, scheduled around the SAT test dates), this company hired me to answer the phone in the office.  The office was in one of the owners' apartments down in a cool part of the city.  I wasn't allowed to do much, just take messages.  The owner, in fact, laid me out when he heard me giving a parent a little information about what they did.  I had repeated a little bit of his spiel verbatim.  I had, after all, heard it a thousand times by that point.

He was an arrogant prick.  Very impressed with his own masculinity and Ivy League degree.  He was also a rabid fantasy baseball player.  He dismissed my curiosity about it.  Women couldn't possibly be interested in baseball at the level fantasy required.  Certainly not mid-Atlantic educated ones, who weren't admitted to an Ivy.  Or a seven sister.  Or...

I worked for them for one SAT season.  Never once did I ever see or experience them backing up one of their employees.  They were perfectly happy to let us line up passively in front of the bus that was angry parents of lazy student's SAT scores.  It was a wretched experience.  If anyone wants the name of the company (they sold out to a national company, but still have the same set-up), do let me know.  I know, given the current economic situation in the U.S., there are lots of people who need jobs.  If you'd like one that will make you feel like shit, let me know and I'll hook you up.

I left the bad company and went to work for a much more pleasant one (who did the same thing(ish) in a mini-mall east of downtown).  Company II was owned by and catered exclusively to Taiwanese immigrants.  Laying the weird meat buns I would sometimes get as gifts aside (but not those lovely red envelopes with money), it was a nice thing to do for the rest of my graduate school summers.

I held onto baseball past that.  I hoped with the Braves every year.  Felt very sad the summer of 1994.  Got back my joy with the Braves World Series of 1995.  Teresa and I went to Angels games, mixed in a Braves/Dodgers game here and there.  We also took time out to go to minor league ball in the Cal League.

My favorite experience was attending a game at the home of the Stockton Ports (now the Mudville Nine) and winning a six pack of pickled peppers.  What was not to like?

The 2002 series was unbelievable.  We breathed in and out with each pitch.  We named our new cat Halo.

Then, a few years ago, Ivy-jerk notwithstanding, I started playing fantasy baseball.  First, I played for free (with strangers) on Yahoo.  Then I joined a money league, ran the blog league and enjoyed myself (mostly).

Last year baseball started to change for me.  The money in the game has been out of control for a while.  Add the drugs.  What have I watched?  The game itself is fine.  MLB far from it.

Was Mark Lemke the last clean player?  Maybe Tim Salmon?  Bob Horner?  Bib Gibson?  Did Bart Giamatti's untimely death ruin it for good?

When I think about my sadness around baseball--and it is surely there--some of it is tied up in fantasy.  The baseball blog league (which was terrifically fun) never attracted enough people to keep it going (unlike it's much healthier sister blogleague football--coming soon for 09!).  The pay league, into which I was invited by my brother, has gone like this:

Year 1:  My dad and I agree to have a team.  He does nothing except pick the team name (with which I am still saddled).  I finish dead dog last.  It cost me real money.

Year 2:  I invite a blog-friend in.  I finish tied for third.  It costs me less money.  Somehow, my dad gets talked into taking a team of his own.  I try to help him on the phone.  I try to help him in person, while we're on vacation.  It's really frustrating.  He finishes last.

Year 3:  For some subconsciously masochistic reason, I agree to be the commissioner.  I like being the commissioner in the blogleagues.  This is not also true of the pay league.  I also switch jobs mid-summer.  Result:  I finish out of the money by 1 point, I spend a lot of time I don't have entering changes for the league.  Mostly though, I have my integrity questioned, am accused of using my commissioner "powers" to cheat and then have a huge fight with my brother.  He tells me in the course of the fight that the guy who said I had cheated had done more for the people in the league than I would ever know.  I decide to quit.

Year 4:  I don't quit.  I think (at the time) that I might get some love of the game back.  Be easy, enjoy yourself.  Today, again, my integrity is questioned because of a lopsided trade I agreed to.  It was lopsided trade designed to help me next year.

But today, I keep thinking about baseball.  And feeling sad. And wondering whether I should play or watch at all next year.  Or the rest of this.

I can think of a few things that might help me feel better--the Ken Burns doc, some Roger Angell, some Stephen J. Gould.  I'd say that I could go to a Rancho Cucamonga Quakes game, but we've had two actual earthquakes in the last three days and somehow I don't want to go to a stadium called the epicenter.  Plus there's that whole--I don't like the Inland Empire much problem.  My university's team is done for the year, so the *pling* of the aluminum bats can be no comfort now.



That's Bronson Arroyo, one of the guys I got in the lopsided trade.  He's curently 6-5 with an ERA of 6.56.  He's 6'5" and goes 195.  I don't think he uses steroids.  That's good, at least.

It's a beautiful game, baseball.  I need to find out how to get back to its beauty.



The dirt's pretty.  So's the ball.  It's everything around it that's suspect.

Cue outro...

"Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio [or insert alt player, as needed]...?"  I'd like some of the joy in Mudville back but am afraid there are too many strikes now.