Back in April, my father and I attended a game at Tropicana Field that didn’t turn out as we’d hoped. The hated New York Yankees beat our beloved Rays. Worse, the already large contingent of Yankees fans in attendance became a majority by the late innings, so that it felt as though we were strangers at our own home park. We resolved not to attend any more home games against New York or Boston. So, last week’s Cleveland series seemed to be the perfect opportunity to see the Rays again, and we attended Sunday afternoon’s game against the Indians.
We arrived early, and parked in a distant, but cheap, parking lot. We had to walk five blocks or so, but we saved at least ten dollars, and avoided all the post-game traffic. We bought tickets at the park this time, and for two extra dollars each, the tickets included lunch. The folks in the box office must have really been pushing the right field bleachers, because our seats–in Row GG, Section 142–were cramped. When the end of the second inning rolled around, we opted not to try and squeeze our way back through the crowd, and instead moved to an emptier part of the park, above the Rays’ bullpen. Those were much better seats.
The game itself got off to a troubling start. Cleveland scored three runs in the top of the first. But the Rays came back, and were ahead by the time Wheeler took over for Niemann. Regrettably, Wheeler blew the lead, and the game stayed tied into extra innings. The Rays had ample opportunities to go ahead, but they left more than a dozen guys on base through the course of the game. Finally, in the bottom of the tenth, Bartlett hit a ball into deep right-center field, sending the winning run home. The Cleveland outfielders didn’t even bother to pick up the ball; they just turned around and walked off the field. My Dad and I left happy.
Later, I saw that we were on TV: once when we were in our outfield seats, and several times when the cameras focused across the infield.
All in all, a wonderful day halfway through the Summer of Baseball.
On January 31, 1988, I watched the pilot episode of a television program called The Wonder Years. Though the show was set in the late 1960s, I related to it because I was about the same age as the main character. As the series began, Kevin Arnold was starting junior high; so was I - in real life. Through subsequent seasons, the show dealt with many topics relevant to my (or any young man’s) life. But one theme of The Wonder Years was always outside the realm of my experience: Kevin Arnold’s difficult relationship with his father. Many episodes dealt with this topic, and it always made me simultaneously uncomfortable and grateful. I felt uncomfortable because the tension seemed so real, and I knew that many fathers and sons had strained relations. I felt grateful because I did not. And though my life has certainly not been free of regret, and though “I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought / And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste”, I have never had to regret any aspect of my relationship with my father. We have always got along well.
So, as I sat with my father on a blanket under the open sky last Saturday night, watching Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play “Racing in the Street”, I felt like things couldn’t get better.
Sure, it looked like the sky might open up any time and unleash a raging storm. But aside from a few sprinkles here and there, the weather held out. And, sure, I was a little worried about how bad our view would be way back on the lawn, but that actually turned out great, too. And, if $56 per ticket seems expensive, we did get three solid hours–twenty-seven songs–of rock.
Miriam and I met my dad at my Uncle Tom’s apartment in Tampa. It could not have been more conveniently located. We ate an early dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse, which was enjoyable and new to me. We made it to the Florida State Fairgrounds before six o’clock, but they didn’t open the gate for a little while after that. We weren’t too far back in the line at the gate, but there were still enough people that I was slightly nervous about getting a decent spot on the lawn. Plus, while were were standing there, the sky, which had spent the earlier part of the day raining, then the afternoon threatening more, began doing just that. It didn’t last, though, and by the time we reached the grass we were hopeful. Though there was a mad dash for the closest seats on the lawn, we managed to find a great spot.
As I expected, “Badlands” opened the show, but for the next two songs I was nervous. Springsteen’s voice was shot. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sing in tune; he couldn’t sing. I honestly expected him to call the show off. But he drank some sort of hot beverage, saying, “I’ll be better in a few songs”. Sure enough, he was. By the time he got to “Seeds” his voice was strong. In the request portion of the show, which has become a fixture of the last couple tours, Bruce grabbed just about every sign from the pit. I saw some fools asking for “Ramrod” and “I’m a Rocker”. Fools. I did see someone after my own heart requesting “Drive All Night”, though, of course, we didn’t get it. What we did get was “Growing Up”, requested by a child in the front row, “All or Nothing at All” which has only been played six times ever, and “Jole Blon” which hasn’t been played since 1981. So, we did okay, especially considering that a few nights later he played “Ramrod”.
I was hoping to hear some classic songs I had not yet heard live, and I got them, including, in the encore, “Rosalita”. After “American Land”, I figured the show was over. But the crowd was so frantic that he busted out “Bobby Jean” and “Dancing in the Dark”, then, finally, “Hungry Heart”. The place was out of control, and I didn’t think he would try and top it, so we grabbed our blanket and were making our way out when the noise got even louder. Something was happening on stage that we couldn’t see. Then we heard Bruce grab the mic and say, “I guess we forgot one”, before the opening strains of “Thunder Road”. It was incredible.
Still, in a show which included so many highlights (including an enthusiastic version of–of all things–Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times Come Again No More”, which, as you know, is my personal anthem), perhaps the best single performance of the night was an astonishing version of “Johnny 99″. It turned into a rollicking railroad reel with dueling guitar solos and showboating. It was thrilling.
Nevertheless, ages and ages hence, when I think back on that night, I’ll most fondly remember hearing “Racing in the Street” while seated on a blanket with my father under the open sky.
Christmas 2008 has come and gone, and I am back home in Gainesville after three days and more than 500 miles on the highway. On the Turnpike this afternoon, an accident on the southbound lanes caused a tremendous backup in the northbound lanes, and more than five miles (I counted) of bumper-to-bumper traffic for the southbound travelers.
Christmas Eve was spent in St. Petersburg at Grandma’s house. She was at church when I arrived, but had made dinner and left it on the counter. Plus, there were brownies. When she got home we watched It’s a Wonderful Life. On Christmas Day we went over to Julie’s. It was a great time. I gave Miriam some aluminum plates for her skates. I gave my dad a book of selected essays of Samuel Johnson, a book which has changed my life. Grandma gave me a book of photos of me as a child. Julie gave me a neat personalized stone for the garden. Miriam gave me the DVD of La fanciulla del West I’ve wanted for a long time with Sherrill Milnes as Jack Rance, and the Penguin Classics edition of Dumas’ Count of Monte Christo I’ve been itching to read.
Back in April, my father and I attended a game at Tropicana Field that didn’t turn out as we’d hoped. The hated New York Yankees beat our beloved Rays. Worse, the already large contingent of Yankees fans in attendance became a majority by the late innings, so that it felt as though we were strangers at our own home park. We resolved not to attend any more home games against New York or Boston. So, last week’s Cleveland series seemed to be the perfect opportunity to see the Rays again, and we attended Sunday afternoon’s game against the Indians.
The game itself got off to a troubling start. Cleveland scored three runs in the top of the first. But the Rays came back, and were ahead by the time Wheeler took over for Niemann. Regrettably, Wheeler blew the lead, and the game stayed tied into extra innings. The Rays had ample opportunities to go ahead, but they left more than a dozen guys on base through the course of the game. Finally, in the bottom of the tenth, Bartlett hit a ball into deep right-center field, sending the winning run home. The Cleveland outfielders didn’t even bother to pick up the ball; they just turned around and walked off the field. My Dad and I left happy.