An All-American Afternoon

This particularly brilliant March Saturday afternoon in Southwest Florida carressed us with its delicate late afternoon breeze. The ambient chattering echoes from over six thousand muttering baseball fans engaged in pre-game banter, sounded remarkably similar to thousands of Canadian Geese honking in migratory flight.

This delightful cacaphony was occasionally punctuated with, "Cold beer! Peanuts! Cold beer!". We knew the guys in the yellow shirts and blue ball caps were selling a lot of peanuts. It was also obvious that these not-so-youthful beer vendors drank a good deal of their own product. To a man, they sported magnificent sweaty paunches, and were laboring hard to carry them and their wares.

I was tucking my four dollar bottle of water in deep shadow under my seat instead of in the designated cup holder mounted to the railing in front of me, which sported full exposure to a scalding sky. Otherwise the insistent eighty-seven degree almost-April sun would make it literally too warm to enjoy. As I put my head between my knees to do so, I couldn't help but notice the not-so-small piles of peanut husks scattered under nearly every seat down our row now, as far as the folding seat frames allowed my inverted eyes to see. I could almost smell the ballpark aura, but it was just too new and clean!

Deafening five second bursts of the Hammond tremolo organ, de rigueur in stadiums across America, was, of course, designed to incite fans to stomp, clap or cheer during the many slow but brief moments in any baseball game. Response to these expected solicitations seemed almost immediate and automatic. It was magical.

The gusty wind swirled the slightest traces of parking lot dust nearly everywhere in the stadium and on the field. The lacework of a breeze had suddenly swelled to a twenty mile an hour southwesterly, but couldn't seem to penetrate section 203, row 1, seats 15 & 16, however. We had great seats, in the sun, but not in the breeze, as we were in the wind-shadow of the first base side of the stadium that stood between us and summer's cooling breath. A steamy Saturday at the ball game. More SPF 50, please!

Sitting next to us brooded an intense fan waiting anxiously for the game to begin. This young six-and-a-half foot tall gent sported a middle-length mop of dark brown hair, a Rays tatoo on the outside of his otherwise unremarkable left bicep, and held a full compliment of fan-ware at the ready. Looked like he had possibly been a respectable athlete a few years ago and a few dozen pounds ago. His foot-long team-logo cow bell had tattered duct tape around the rim so as to mitigate the damage to his colorfully hand-painted drumstick which had been pressed into service as his trusty bell striker. It wouldn’t be long before he would bludgeon that bell in cadence to the cheerleaders' solicitations. He politely forwarned us.

His pursed lips, surrounded by what I'm sure he envisioned was perceived as respectable Major League stubble that covered a more-than-casual beer drinker's cheeks, seemed to exhibit determination to be the best darn fan at the game. His partially hooded eyes, under the carefully sculpted bill of his well-worn team hat, shot down to a spot of yellow mustard on his authentic high-dollar MLB team shirt, but not with dismay; rather, he appeared satisfied that this spot looked quite appropriate there, and thanked my wife and fellow spectator, Kay, for pointing out that badge of honor.

He appeared to be thirty-something, but had to be forty-something since his slender daughter appeared to almost be leaving puberty behind, and had the mood to boot. Dad was talkative, but she never spoke a word, pouted quite a little, and was constantly on the move, making frequent short trips from her seat next to Dad to somewhere else, but seemingly never to fetch refreshments for Dad or for herself. A little too much make-up, a little too self-conscious about trying to keep every hair in place on a windy outdoor afternoon, and a little too fashion-conscious for a ball game. No cell phone though. Interesting. Moody teen-ager at the game with Dad who seemed to have a better rapport with the charismatic young cheerleaders performing enthusiastically directly in front of us than with his trying-too-hard-to-be-independent daughter. Interestingly, Dad's rapport was established and maintained for the entire game, not with words, but with his drum stick striking the cow bell in a brief but boldly accelerating cadence to their cheers. In fact, he frequently initiated the cadence that the cheerleaders would follow. Hey, it’s a ball game!

Everybody loves spring training, it would seem. This is where you occasionally get the rare opportunity to see some of the best players in the world commit amateurish mistakes, and some of the best new players kill themselves to out-perform their veteran teammates. Sort of like the exciting stuff you frequently see in college football, but this was clearly at a professional level.

This smallish but beautiful brand new twenty-two million dollar stadium was stuffed to its capacity of six thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three. Perhaps a few more than that. All the seats were full, as was standing room in the seats and bleachers. Additionally, a throng of fans constantly patrolled the nineteen thousand square foot boardwalk surrounding the entire outfield, which was complete with souvenir stands, a Tiki bar in center field under the scoreboard where cocktails could be procured at premium prices.

Grassy berms along the outfield extensions of the first and third baselines connected the stands around the infield, where our seats were, to the boardwalk surrounding the outfield. They were essentially elevated lawns of beautifully maintained grass. You could buy a ticket for just nine bucks and lay on your own blanket in these areas that sloped down to the field to watch the game. Today, virtually every square yard was covered with blankets and parents and adults and coolers and meandering infants. Many waved their own Rays pennants!

We had no intention of going to a baseball game until a few weeks ago when a Bahamas-bound boating acquaintance offered to sell us two of the block of tickets his yacht club had purchased as a promotion. After all, he told us, he wouldn't be able to use them. We learned that these were considered very good tickets! Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. We did enjoy our front row seats in the first elevated section of the stands along the infield first base line, nestled just behind the home team's dugout. Perversely, we seemed to enjoy them even more once we learned from our superfan neighbor that we had really good seats. Yes, we had to be told, or we wouldn’t have known!

Bouncing youthful beauties constantly pranced provocatively but tastefully, and squealed energetically less than thirty inches in front of us for most of the game, when they weren't executing a choreographed dance routine on the blue roof of the dugout - we're told the players love that. The roof was obviously blue and white because those were the home team's colors. We knew these girls were close because I could smell their shampoo and noticed slight imperfections in their otherwise perfect complexion. They smelled good and looked good, but it was a mystery how they sustained that much energy in that much heat for that long. Today, youth was clearly NOT wasted on the young.

These girls were "The Ray Team", and there were plenty of them (present in virtually every section of the stands), and are known to the unwashed masses as cheerleaders for the Tampa Bay Rays Major League Baseball team. I believe they used to be called the "Devil Rays", but perhaps there was too negative a connotation for what appears to be an ultra-conservative portion of the deep south, even though Florida does NOT consider itself a portion of the deep south. This is probably because very few people who live in Florda are FROM the south!

A professional athlete has a certain air about him. He’s been selected to play professionally because he is the best, and he knows it. He also knows the importance of playing to his fans. A subtle nod to a fan (like me) who singularly cheers him onto first base after a decisive hit--a personal acknowledgement that my gutteral howl, for example, celebrated his personal success--was appreciated by a talented pro. Even though his mini-nod was only aimed in my general direction, I KNEW it was just for me--mostly because I was loudest at that instant. A day-after sore throat was my souvenir to prove it. And it struck me that a ball game is a diverse collection of enjoyable instants.

We were watching a pre-season exhibition game at the Rays' Grapefruit League spring training "camp", in this beautiful home-away-from-home stadium - a gorgeous and exquisitely maintained field. In a previous incarnation, before being completely razed and rebuilt in 2008, this same stadium had been the training camp home of the Texas Rangers for fifteen years before they got a better offer in Arizona.

The Rays were playing the Cincinnati Reds today. We would have preferred to see them play the Minnesota Twins next Wednesday, since we’re Minnesota transplants to Southwest Florida, but alas, no tickets were available, and we had already paid today’s ante. Besides, we agreed that to these two sailors, for our first baseball game after fifteen years, it didn't really matter that much to us. The last one we attended was the New York Mets playing someone, I forget who, at Shea Stadium in 1990.

Our new friend and Rays super-fan next to us, with moody teen-age daughter in tow, informed us that we were watching some of the best baseball in the world right now. He wasn't sure we knew what we were about to see, so he tutorially advised us that the Tampa Bay Rays were the American League champions last year, and while they battled the Phillies in the 2008 World Series, they did not prevail. Since then, they've recruited some new world class talent such as Akinori ("Aki") Iwamura, who was recruited from Japan. He helped the Japanese national team snag the title of World Baseball Classic champions. That did sound rather like a big deal to us outsiders. Aki got a standing ovation when he stepped up to the plate the first time of the day. And every subsequent at-bat, the stands would predictably break out in a screeching chant: "Ah-KEE! Ah-KEE!! Ah-KEE!!". Sounded like a pissed-off osprey, a bird of prey not afraid to let the world know when his territory is being threatened by another osprey or the only bird that is more predatory than the osprey, the great-horned owl.

The Reds were clearly near the top of their game this day, at least more so than the Rays, even though both teams committed a few delicious training camp errors that would be entirely unacceptable and unappreciated during the regular Major League Baseball season. Exactly the point of spring training: flush out the errors now when they “don’t count” during these pre-season spring training sparring sessions with other unyielding pros. Must be standard procedure to not post errors on the scoreboard, though, since none were. I guess they really don’t count!

Besides this drop-dead gorgeous stadium, Charlotte Sports Park features five other highly manicured fields on site for various specialty practice sessions, and sported parking lots that spread half a dusty mile in at least three directions around the stadium. I'm glad I didn't wash the car before going to the game, though. The lots were so dusty on this wind-torn afternoon that the guys directly traffic looked like either hooded and masked bandits or hazardous materials handlers.

To say the atmosphere inside the stadium was festive would be an understatement. The town of Port Charlotte, Florida, who now hosts spring training for this championship team was loud and proud, letting "their" team know how much they appreciated their business and their pre-season loyalty. After all, the Rays put up $5M of their own dough to help build this stadium; however, they also receive 100% of the concession and souvenir proceeds during all the exhibition games. Quid pro quo.

Apparently, the first four or five innings feature all the star players. Guys like left-handed second baseman, Aki (Ah-KEE!!), star right-handed third baseman, Evan Longoria (2008 rookie of the year, a.k.a., "Longo!!"), veteran left-handed left fielder and long hitter Carl Crawford ("CC!!). Then later, they put in the rising stars for experience. One young Rays fan, all of ten or eleven months old, constantly observed our behavior as neophyte fans. Although more youthful, he clearly was more of a veteran fan. Decked out from his blue and white TB hat, jersey (complete with snap-up crotch for lightening fast diaper changes) to his fist-held Rays bell, was on his home turf. He enthusiastically rang his own bell, just for us, between diaper changes and sunscreen dousings, that is.

While Kay and I determined that we're not really baseball fans, it was a fun and interesting afternoon! We made the most of it. And if we were MLB fans, the Rays would be our "home team", along with the Port Charlotte Stone Crabs, a local class A minor league team from the what is known as the Grapefruit League. What a great stadium for "just" an A team, who are ostensibly not quite as good as a double-A or triple-A, the next levels up and immediately below major league status like the Rays, as I understand it.

The Rays lost to the Cincinnati Reds five to one, but definitely not from lack of local fan(atic) support.

What a terrific way to spend a March afternoon in Southwest Florida!