Fancy free in the gateway city
I am typing this—quite literally—in the shadow of the Gateway Arch. I had all day Monday and most of the day today to explore St. Louis, and I’ve been doing quite a bit of that recently. It began yesterday morning about 660 feet from where I am now. The arch features a 40 passenger tram inside each leg, leading to an observation deck across the top. It was as I was about to step into the tiny cabin that I had the idea of getting a disposable camera. Those pictures will be up once I get them developed. However, until someone works out a way to download my memories, the most spectacular views—from the top of the arch—will just have to stay inside my head.
I have spent the most recent academic term in an exploration of public art and an experiment in public interaction with works of art. (In other words—for anyone reading this who isn’t family or hasn’t heard—I spent the last semester pretending to be a statue.) So, naturally, I’ve been more drawn to art in public places on this trip than any I’ve taken in the past. So, it was only a matter of time before I found myself in citygarden. This is a three acre space with several sculptures, lawns, and fountains. There are also a number of people dressed as security guards but who really act more like ambassadors for the city.
I was also intrigued by the Art St. Louis space, where up-and-coming St. Louis area artists have their works displayed in a downtown gallery. Much of the work is for sale, but by the entrance was a piece that wasn’t: a work whose medium was described as “Stenciled Dirt” on the identifying label. It was a beautiful, geometric shape formed from dirt on the ground in a place where, for the next show, they might conceivably put a doormat.
From there, I went to the City Museum, and nearly walked right past it. All I knew about it beforehand was that it was highly recommended. I almost walked past it because the building itself is a converted 11-story warehouse. In one corner of three stories of the building the collection, which is essentially a giant jungle gym made of bits and pieces of historic but not particularly valuable artifacts. I imagine I’d have had fun there about fifteen years ago, but seeing it through adult eyes, the twisted passages and surreal surroundings were just a bit unnerving. Or maybe I’m just jealous of kids having fun.
I close by saying that as much as I am enjoying this trip, it is definitely time to go home. In Minnesota, I was trying to squeeze in a few more things to do, a little bit farther to walk, a little bit more to see in the gaps in my schedule. Now, I sit under the arch and write to pass some of that time until the train leaves. It’s not that I feel there’s nothing left to see in St. Louis, but that I’m on information overload and have to go back to ‘Burque to process it all.
The Arch-rivalry
Monday, May 14, 2012–Cardinals 4, Cubs 6
Ten minutes before first pitch, and I wasn‘t so sure if this rivalry was all it was cracked up to be. I mean, where were all the fans? Still in line getting a beer? I’d expect that sort of thing in Philly, and saw it first-hand in Milwaukee, but this was the Cardinals and Cubbies. I literally scheduled this entire trip around this game because I wanted to see a real rivalry game, and the place is half-empty for the national anthem? What gives? I was feeling pretty down on fans of both teams, the entire city of St. Louis, and the rivalry in general. That was until I met Taylor.
Taylor— who was seated right next to me— was certainly the loudest Cub fan in my section, and quite possibly the whole ballpark. And as the seats did eventually fill up (this time with the hometown loyalists as a clear majority), she probably became the most hated girl down the right-field line. I’m sure she couldn’t care less. Seeing how she’d get swept up in every play (and for some at-bats, every pitch) was very entertaining in the early innings as both teams squandered good scoring chances. But as the night went on, getting to see it through her eyes became a transformative experience for me. First the Cubs scored four in the 5th, and she was on top of the world, and when David Freese was thrown out at the plate in the 6th, she was pounding me on the back so hard I thought she might dislocate my shoulder.
Despite the runner thrown out, the Cards did tie it in the 6th, and that’s when I became more aware of the Cardinal fans around me as well. Though certainly not as vocal as my neighbor, they were just as much into the game. The couple to the other side would lean in— simultaneously— for every pitch, and hold hands whenever the Cubs were threatening. Their relationship was him, her, and the Cardinals. So, were there fans who were tardy to their seats? Yes. What’s more, they were probably the same ones who left after the eighth even though it was a one-run game. They’re there, but don’t really matter. It’s the sheer number of fans of both teams who were there on time, did stay ’till the end, and truly do care that make this rivalry special.
The Cardinals let it get sloppy (or, as I was saying to Taylor, “they’re playing like the Cubs”) and gave up single runs in the 8th and 9th for the 6-4 final. Cubs starter Ryan Demptser got yet another tough-luck no-decision, his counterpart Jake Westbrook was lucky to escape with the same. Mitchell Boggs was pegged with the loss, Shawn Camp picked up the win, and Rafael Dolis caught two birds looking to get the save.
My day in Milwaukee
I begin with a bit of bad news, I’ve just discovered I’ve lost my camera, I believe either in the Greyhound station in Chicago or Milwaukee. I’m going to take the optimistic track and presume that it will turn up eventually, but this means that, for the moment, this post will be sans photos.
I write from St. Louis, where I’ve just gotten settled in at my motel. I can convey everything of note about my 10-hour bus trip in a single sentence:
The Midwest is flat.
So I’m going to write about my day in Milwaukee yesterday. I actually gave myself two days to see a game and explore the town. The plan was to arrive Friday afternoon and then see the town in order to devote most of the day yesterday to see the game. But, because I wore myself out cycling around Minneapolis on Thursday, I simply crashed when I got to the hotel.
I got up early, stepped outside and made it one block from the hotel before turning around to grab my sweater (which I had actually packed in case I needed it in the Twin Cities). It was overcast and it was windy. I zigzagged my way through downtown and eventually wound up at the Milwaukee Art Museum around 9:30.
I’d learned that it is a museum with wings, which open during operating hours. I’d also learned that the admission was cost-prohibitive for someone who wanted to be at the ballpark in an hour and a half. But I wanted to catch the spectacle of the opening of the wings, so I walked a little ways along the lakefront before heading back. Not only does the museum have wings, it also has an “opening the wings” fanfare which is played quite loudly. I’m afraid that spoiled the effect for me, the building seems too dignified [Imagine a very dignified picture of the museum here] for such showiness.
After the game, when I did have time to look around, I went back to the museum. I’m glad I did, the individual galleries are small, but it seemed to be a very well rounded collection, and not overwhelming like many larger art museums I’ve been to. The most fascinating exhibit was an installation—as you approach a two-story wall you are confronted with what appears to be a wall of clouds or soap suds. It is only when you get closer that you see it is actually thousands upon thousands of drinking straws.
I left the museum right before they closed (and played the “closing the wings” fanfare). By then, it was gorgeous outside [I’d love to show y’all a picture] and the thought of anyone besides my mother¹ needing warming clothing of any kind seemed ludicrous. A mite peckish, I headed over to the historic Third Ward, a district of converted warehouses that are now retail space. I got my dinner there, but found the place a bit too gentrified for my tastes. However, I did see something I found amusing, and which I’ll leave you with:
[Imagine in this space a photograph of a sign taped to a register proclaiming “We reserve the right to refuse service to Cubs fans.”]
¹By the way, happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
Trouble brewing
Saturday, May 12, 2012–Brewers 8, Cubs 2
I always think of the Cubs and Cardinals as the great midwest rivalry, and I’ll get to experience that firsthand in just a few days. However, since the Brewers have pulled themselves out of the cellar, it does follow that Cubs-Brewers could also be an intense rivalry. After all, the two cities are less than a hundred miles apart and the teams are division rivals. After arriving in Milwaukee, I caught the last seven innings of yesterday’s series opener on television. That game had all the makings of a playoff preview: multiple lead changes, sensational plays to save runs and on more than one occasion a pitcher would wiggle his way out of a jam. It was finally decided in the 13th with Travis Ishikawa’s bases-loaded single to give the Brew Crew an 8-7 win.
So, in some ways, this afternoon’s game also had that real rivalry feeling to it. A number of batters were hit by pitches yesterday, and when Ryan Braun and Alfonso Soriano were both plunked in the early innings, warnings were issued and there was quite a bit of jawing, just like a real rivalry. Well… except for one little thing: the fans. The crowd was listed—near capacity—at over 42 thousand. My estimate is the split of Brew boosters to Cubbie loyalists was about 60/40. But something about those fans was just not quite right for a real rivalry. It’s a ballpark with a retractable roof, but there are large windows in the outfield to give the stadium some more natural lighting. And through the third inning, out the window beyond right field, I could see a pedestrian bridge with large numbers of people crossing to the park. Somehow, in a rivalry, I’d expect those people to have made that trip over that bridge and into the stadium about an hour earlier than they did. For the middle innings, the place was completely packed, but it took a while to get that way.
It seems odd to call a game with an 8-2 final a pitcher’s duel, but that was what it felt like for most of the game. The Cubs scored first on, of all things, a double play with a runner at third. The Brewers answered with an even odder play: the run scoring pickoff. Nyjer Morgan was at third with Braun at first. Braun took off for second way too early and was picked off. But he stayed in a rundown long enough for Morgan to score—it appeared the Cubs simply forgot he was there. After that and through the top of the 6th, both Shaun Marcum for the Brewers and Chris Volstad of the Cubs were in complete control.
Volstad blinked first. After giving up a run in the bottom of the 6th, he gave up a single and a double to put runners at 2nd and 3rd. He then intentionally walked Ishikawa to load up the bases for the kid just up from Triple-A, Edwin Maysonet. Maysonet proceeded to crush the ball down the leftfield line for a grand slam and his first 4 career RBIs, and from there, the game wasn’t close again.
Lost in Minneapolis
I’ll admit it, I do get smug sometimes about my sense of direction. I’ve got a very good one, and I’m usually extremely proficient with maps. For example, the streets of London most closely resemble a plate of spaghetti that’s fallen on the floor, but after spending some time studying the pertinent maps, I could have found my way blindfolded when I was there a few years ago. For reasons I don’t completely understand, the only two places I’ve ever been where I could not trust my intuition at all have been Santa Fe, New Mexico and Irvine, California. It’s beginning to look like I can add Minneapolis to the list, I got lost not once, but twice.
My $6 transit pass from Wednesday was—I discovered—good for a full 24 hours after I bought it, so I decided to take a bus into town on the last few minutes I had left, and then just see where I wound up. It wasn’t too long before I discovered the Skyway. Dozens of downtown buildings and hundreds of companies have coordinated a miles-long urban shopping mall and pedestrian bridge complex that allows people to get around most of downtown without ever touching the ground. I got my lunch and a good deal of window shopping in. I also got completely turned around and disconbobulated. It was early afternoon and I had no place I needed to be right away, so I didn’t mind, but after a few hours the novelty wore off and I wanted to be back in the real world.
I left the skyway and was greeted by a very tempting sight. Those are rental bicycles. Minneapolis is bike friendly city with many bike trails and very wide bike lanes marked out on city streets. I’d seen the University of Minnesota’s art museum a number of times on the bus, and with not a whole lot else really calling to me, so I biked over the stone arch bridge over the Mississippi (which also affords a fine view of the northernmost dam and lock on the river) and made my way towards the campus. The museum is a twisty-turney, metal skinned jumble of a building. It turned out the building was the most noteworthy thing on display, so after about an hour there, I decided to ride to the ballpark, return the bike and get ready for the game.
That’s when I got really lost, and if it wasn’t for an extraordinarily helpful young man named Joey, I’d be halfway to Anoka right now. I took the Washington Avenue bridge back to the west side of the river, then made a wrong turn and found myself in a situation where the only way to safely navigate was to stay in the bike lane over a very long viaduct—back to the “wrong” side of the river and quite a ways from any landmark I really knew.
The Mississippi— even as far upstream as Minneapolis— is a very big river, but I had a very difficult time finding it. I found a map at another bike rental station and made a firm plan of attack: two blocks north and then make a left would get me to another bridge. I made the left and found myself in a cul-de-sac. After some more searching like this, I came across some people walking and riding in one of the trails. “Excuse me, can you tell me the best way to the ballpark?” I asked.
—–“Do you know where Boom Island is?” One of them asks me. Embarrassed, I say that I don’t and explain that this is my first time in Minneapolis. “Gee, it’s kinda tough,” Joey, the guy on the bike says. “I’ve biked it a thousand times, but I don’t really know how to explain it…” then, out of nowhere, he says “I’ll just go there and you can follow me.”
—–Amazed, I started to say that wasn’t really necessary, but he insisted it was no trouble at all. Turns out, I was about two miles north of where I thought I was, and true to his word, Joey had me at the stadium 20 minutes later. In that time we had a very pleasant chat about baseball, municipal rental bike programs, travel by train and the parts of town we were traveling through. I guess it just goes to show that sometimes there are advantages to getting lost.
Can’t anybody here play this game?
Thursday, May 8, 2012–Twins 2, Blue Jays 6
The very nice lady at the post office had a theory: The Twins were playing back to lull their division rivals into a false sense of security, and when July comes around, “that’s when we charge.” When I expressed doubt about these sentiments, her reply was, “well, we can hope, right?” If she is right, July can’t come soon enough for the Twins. As I write, they are 8-23, and if the display I saw in Minneapolis is typical, I’m not sure how they’ve even won eight.
I sat next to a very friendly guy who was telling me about the Twins latest roster moves and the fuss that was being made about how the team was considering moving the fences in because there weren’t enough home runs being hit, and then added “but the opposing teams don’t seem to be having that problem.” I explained that the only player for either team I knew really well was former Isotope Josh Willingham, I told him about the time Hammer hit one over the scoreboard at Isotopes park, and he was suitably impressed. He told me about the giant neon Twins sign in center field—twin baseball players representing Minneapolis and St. Paul hold hands across the river “When we hit a home run, the sign lights up and the twins shake hands,” I think he told me this doubting that I’d actually witness this spectacle.
In the third inning alone, Yunel Escobar scored from second as Twins second baseman Alexi Casilla fell asleep trying to turn a double play and Bret Lawrie went first to third on a passed ball that Ryan Doumit couldn’t find. And it wasn’t over yet. Edwin Encarnacion is credited with an RBI single in the fourth. It was actually a fly ball that went half a mile in the air before landing—completely untouched—three feet in front of the plate. Even the baserunning was ugly, Eric Komatsu reached on an infield hit, took second on a throwing error and then got caught in no-man’s land trying to get to third.
How bad was this game? Even the umpires were falling asleep. At one point, they had to have a conference to confirm that Jose Bautista had indeed been hit by a pitch. At another, first base ump Tim Tschida was so unimpressed that he simply shook his head rather than making a signal on an appeal play. The only saving grace for the home team was in the sixth, when Josh Willingham hit a laser beam into the leftfield porch. I got to see the twins shake hands. “Your boy!” my neighbor exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder.
At the top of the eighth, in the part of the game where most Major League teams ask fans to sing along to Sweet Caroline, the Twins have chosen a song that might be meant for the lady at the post office: Don’t Stop Believing.
Bobby needs a new pair of shoes…
Those who know me well will tell you I’m a procrastinator. Those who know me even better will tell you that I do not like shopping for shoes. Put the two together, and you get something like this:
Yes, those are what I put on my feet to go out into the world, and I’d rather wear them than shop for replacements. But I’ve known for quite some time that these had to go. I also knew that I couldn’t come to Minnesota and not visit the Mall of America. Putting those two together gave me my plan for the day.
An all day transit pass costs $6 here, and I got full value out of mine today. First a bus which took me through several very pleasant neighborhoods in east St. Paul to a light rail station where I caught the train to the mall. But not before I encountered a very amusing work of public art.
Along the platform were several emergency telephones as well as a feature I’d be very glad to know about if I’m ever here in the winter, a small space heater with a button that says “push for heat.” Then, I saw a nondescript looking metal box with a counter, a speaker, and a button. Closer examination revealed it was a work of art entitled Small Kindness, Weather Permitting. Pushing the button advanced the counter by one and treated me to a very silly audio sketch about just how cold it is here.
I got to the mall and was able to find a pair of shoes. As for what I have to say about the place itself… Well, it’s a giant mall—with shops wrapped around an amusement park comparable in size to the largest such park in the state of New Mexico—but it’s still a mall. Many of you already know how I feel about malls, but if you don’t, all I’ll say is that 2 hours was plenty of time to see everything I needed to see.
I spent the rest of the day putting my new purchases through their paces. Since I’m going to be in Minneapolis tomorrow, I decided to check out St. Paul today. I began by getting off the bus at the state capitol and walking around there a bit. The big story there involves the area’s football team, the Vikings, and how much the state is going to pony up for a new stadium. There was a purple bus with 10-foot long painted horns on its side parked outside with several Vikings fans holding a banner saying “Don’t let us become the third Dakota.”
From there, I walked downtown. Here’s what kind of day it was:
While it’s a very pleasant city, there wasn’t really anything that grabbed me, so before too long I found myself at the bank of the Mississippi. I walked along it under two bridges before heading back to the hotel. It was only then I traced my path on Google Maps and discovered I’d walked nearly eight miles in total. Looks like I’m gonna have to go shoe shopping again before too long…
Hopping into town
Greetings! I write from just about halfway between the downtowns of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Today was an unusually tiring travel day for me. I’ve said a number of times that I don’t like to fly and here’s why: it’s the only activity I know of that is exhausting when all you’re doing is sitting down. Follow that up with the fact that the Chicago-Minneapolis/St. Paul leg of the trip had thousands of passengers.
I’m not mistyping. I was in the very back of the plane, so once we’d reached the gate, I still had to sit there nearly ten minutes while everyone else collected their things and left. So I watched the bags being unloaded while I waited. Once the luggage was off, a large number of funny-looking crates were unloaded. How were they funny-looking? Here are a few:
click to enlarge
In case you can’t see, they have several holes in the sides covered with a mesh netting. Through those holes I could see what looked like egg cartons—sans egg. I saw at least a dozen of these crates being unloaded before one passed with a label I could read:
Live Crickets
keep warm
please rush
Well, like I said, it’s not terribly late, but I’m exhausted, so I’ll pack it in for the day. Tomorrow I’ll visit the Mall of America (because it seems to be expected, somehow) and see where else the muses of the Twin Cities take me, and then the Twins await on Thursday.
Spreading my wings again
It kinda snuck up on me, with school and all, but the dates on my various baseball tickets are sneaking up on me, so I guess I better get going. I leave Tuesday for the Twin Cities. Like my trip last year, I will take care of the part I enjoy the least—flying—first, and then come back via train, with stops in Milwaukee and St. Louis. Learning from my trip last year, I will be doing something a little differently, I am making sure that all my train travel will be during the daytime. My tagline for this blog is “Seeing America, one ballpark at a time,” and you don’t see very much at night.
So, when you hear from me next, I’ll be somewhere in Minnesota to begin the travelogue again. I hope you enjoy going on this trip with me.
A perfect night to get hooked on scorekeeping
This is going to be a two-part post, because there’s a bit of background I have to fill in before I get to my point.
Earlier this month, I wrote quite a bit about the effect keeping score at a baseball game has on how well I remember a game. To put it briefly, the two Major League games I went to in 2002 (before I started keeping score) have completely eluded my memory, and even intense efforts to reconstruct those two games have failed to bring back any tangible memories, at least as far as the games themselves. Meanwhile, with a few notable exceptions (and you can see the notes I’ve already made on this subject in the write-ups of my visits to Phoenix and Baltimore), the games where I did keep a card are considerably more memorable.
So, this may have had you wondering why I wasn’t keeping score before 2003, and how I picked up the custom in the first place. To explain, I have to go back to when the Dukes left Albuquerque. It wasn’t quite the angst-fest of the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn, but it did leave a lot of Burqueños feeling betrayed and abandoned. The best way to describe the relationship between Albuquerque baseball fans and the Isotopes is like when a marriage falls apart because one spouse was taking the other for granted, he might be prone to overcompensate with the next woman he meets. The city built a larger and nicer brand new stadium for the Isotopes, costing quite a bit more than the renovations the Dukes had requested for the existing stadium, and heck, we even let them get away with calling themselves “Isotopes,” (which, in case you didn’t know is a rip-off of an episode of The Simpsons).
Personally, I was so thrilled to have baseball back in the Duke City, I grabbed a permanent marker and made myself what just might be the first Isotopes jersey ever. I got as much Isotopes gear and souvenirs as budget and space would allow. Of course, I made sure to get tickets for the first ever home game, and because they started that season on the road, I seriously considered traveling to Memphis for their first game. That never happened, but somewhere in that week, I got the idea that my opening night program wouldn’t be ”official” unless I filled in the scorecard.
I remember April 11, 2003 quite clearly. Strangely enough, that game has gotten a little hazy as well, but I remember just how beautiful a night it was, in the mid-80s with the slightest of breezes, in this gem of a ballpark, and just how gratifying it was to know that baseball was back and it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Oh yes, and the ‘Topes lost, 5-3. But I was already hooked on scorekeeping by then.
I’d never filled in a scorecard before. I gave it a try for the game at Dodger Stadium and was so confused that I didn’t even get through the top of the first. I decided I needed to practice first. Because the ‘Topes started their inaugural season with 8 road games, I had some games I could listen to on the radio, and that would help me—first of all, to get to know the players on this team I’d already sworn my loyalty to, but also plenty of chances to hone my scorekeeping skills.
I picked up a sheet of scrap paper which was already stained and festooned with white-out and drew a 9×9 grid on it. I remember wondering how to deal with certain plays, how I would denote a well-executed hit-and-run, and so on. I was also idly wondering what a perfect game¹ would look like. I deduced that a perfect game had to be nothing more than three parallel lines running diagonally down the page.
Now, the only reason I’d even start my practice scorecard on such a filthy piece of scrap is that I was absolutely certain that I’d throw it out once the game was over, if I hadn’t given up before then. Well, I still have that card, I keep it partly as a monument to an obsession, but also because of the remarkable nature of the game. On April 7, 2003, the Isotopes played their first-ever game against the Nashville Sounds (Albuquerque and Nashville. How’s that for a Pacific Coast League matchup?)
Because I wasn’t going to keep the card, I was pretty lax about getting folks’ names right. I scribbled “Lasdo?” into the Nashville pitcher’s slot in the lineup. After John Wasdin, Nashville’s pitcher, shut down the ‘Topes and threw a perfect game (and, in doing so, confirmed my conclusion of how such a game would look on a scorecard, among many other things), I corrected it. Wasdin’s perfecto was (at the time) only the second 9-inning, one-pitcher perfect game in the history of the league. It also got me hooked on scorekeeping.
¹ A perfect game is the most celebrated and rarest single-game pitching acomplishment. A pitcher must face an opposing lineup three times without allowing a single batter to safely reach first base.
