When an American has gone a long time without going to a
baseball game, something inherent in the soul tickles the conscience until it
can smell the dust and hear the crack of the bat. It’s not that we all like
baseball, far from it. It’s not even
that baseball is the national pastime anymore, or that we’re the only ones who
are any good at it, like Football. It is the languidity of our summers, and the
powerful attachment we have to slowing things down and having time to talk and
to think and to ignore the realities of our lives for a couple of hours, which
could stretch out to a whole evening. That is the reason Americans keep going
to baseball games. That, or the beer.
When I went to the Diablos Rojos’ game that Sunday, I
certainly wasn’t going for the beer. There is, of course, legally speaking, no
drinking in public parks in Los Angeles. I had just completed the winter
quarter at the University of Chicago. Winter is the cruelest quarter, mixing
memory (of Fall) and desire (for spring) and coming back to LA and smelling the
night-flowering jasmine helps to heal the wounds inflicted by the snow and the
wind. I don’t usually go to baseball games in the early spring, though. The
late summer, when Vicente Padilla’s slow pace and slow pitching gave Vin Scully’s
perfect voice the time to tell his timeless stories, the ones that make summer
last forever until it’s time to go to bed so that you can wake up the next
morning with the birds and tell the kids at camp about how much Vin means to
you while they chuckle at how old you sound, that’s the time I usually make
time to go to the ballpark.
But since I knew I wouldn’t be returning to Los Angeles for
a while, and I hate the trashy dump that is Wrigley Field (The people who think
Dodger Stadium sucks should try to buy any food or beer, or hear who the relief
pitcher is, or try to stay warm in their seats at Wrigley in May) and the
unusually trashy fraternity house that is Wrigleyville, and going to the Sox is
fun but hard to convince people to do, my baseball senses were up.
It certainly didn’t hurt the cause that my brother was
playing for one of the teams. I hadn’t been to one of his games for a full
year, and he had been on this new team for almost that long. I had also never
watched a Mexican Sunday League game all the way through. The game was ten
minutes from our house. His team had an awesome name. I had heard incredible
stories about the fun the team had on the field. It was time for baseball.
I drove my brother to the game, picking up his friend
Tristan on the way. We prepared for the game with the right kind of pump-up
music, I put on 103.1 (El Gato: Salvajemente Grupero) and listened to Los Huracanes
del Norte play some corridos. I have strange musical preferences.
The game was supposed to start at noon, but they had to get
there early for practice. I dropped them at Mar Vista park at eleven fifteen,
and went to the store to get some snacks.
Though the closest grocery store to Mar Vista Park is a
Trader Joe’s, they do not carry La Opinion, the Spanish newspaper of Los
Angeles, and I wanted to read about Cruz Azul’s upcoming match, so I went to
Mercado Aqui Es Oaxaca instead. Like most treasured institutions of Los
Angeles, Aqui Es Oaxaca is tucked in a strip mall with a check cashing place. I
picked up La Opinion, making an error in Spanish on the way, and also grabbed a
Sidral soda, because the only Jarritos available were “Jarritos Light” and that
seems like bullshit.
I drove back to Mar Vista Park, intending to make the first
pitch of the game, at noon. I had fifteen minutes to drive two. But when I
turned the car on, I accidentally put on NPR. Ira Glass was discussing
something. It was powerfully moving, even though today I don’t remember a word
he said. I was captivated. When he was finally done, I realized I had probably missed
the start of the game. This made me sad.
I should have known not to be down, though, about this event
starting on time. When I walked to the field, I saw multiple players on both
teams warming up in the outfield, throwing the ball to each other, and enjoying
the beautiful day. I walked over to my brother to say hi.
He saw me coming, I think, because when I got over there he
turned to his teammate and said “Hey Pony! This is Dexter. He speaks Spanish. ¡El habla español!”
Pony said “¿Como esta usted?” and I think he didn’t realize
that his teammate was my brother, so I answered him, pointing at my brother
“Estoy bien, compa. Soy el hermano de este pinche puto.” (I’m good, man. I’m
this fucker’s brother.)
Pony cracked up, and then pointed at Preston. “¿Este
joto?” (This [derogatory word for homosexual]) and
then we both cracked up.
We talked for a couple more minutes, and then I took up my
place in the stands. I opened La Opinion, and began to read the sports section.
Then, while the opposing team came out to take infield practice, Rica, the
manager of the Diablos Rojos, came over to the bench with the scorebook. I knew this was my chance to be a Diablo Rojo.
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