Cash? Check. Coffee? Check. Gas? Check.

Good to go.

We left San Diego shortly after 9 a.m. and headed north on I-5 toward Stockton. The drive through Oceanside, Camp Pendleton, Orange County, and various parts of Los Angeles proved uneventful, which is precisely as you want it to be.

We made our first stop, as we generally do, just past the San Fernando Valley. Some random exit in Santa Clarita, near the roller coasters of Valencia.

Fast food. Fried fish sandwich. Fried potatoes. Fried Coke. Phone call home. One of the joys of married life. It’s a matter of respect, not obligation.

Back on the road not 20 minutes, somewhere between Pyramid Lake and Gorman, traffic halted. Everything we had feared might happen in the City of Angels had caught up with us 40 miles north.

In the distance, billows of white and grey smoke swept across the horizon. We slowed to a Trachselesque pace on our way up an imposing hill.

Then came the sirens. Fire trucks from behind, negotiating the big rigs making their way toward the Central Valley, disabled SUVs on the shoulder, and the rest of us trying to go somewhere ― anywhere out of the city ― for the Labor Day weekend.

Choppers circled overhead. We were in the smoke. Twenty or more fire trucks lined either side of the freeway. A few flames at the roadside but mostly charred hills and rolling plumes.

Into the valley north of Gorman, the sky blocked by haze, helicopters dipping into Castac Lake to bring water to the fire. Much later we learned that I-5 was shut down for several hours shortly after we passed through the area. We were slightly inconvenienced, but we were lucky.

From Gorman, through Lebec and over the Grapevine. Past SR-46 and, 31 miles to the north, SR-41. About 40 minutes to the west, where those two roads converge, James Dean was killed September 30, 1955, while driving his Porsche Spyder near the town of Cholame.

We straddled the California Aqueduct (referenced in Frank Black’s “Ole Mulholland” from his 1994 release, Teenager of the Year), through Avenal, and made our second stop near Coalinga to refuel. $3.40 a gallon for the cheap stuff.

From Coalinga, we headed through the vast stretches of farmland in northeast Fresno County (where the aqueduct flows, crops grow). Towns on or near the freeway: Los Banos, Gustine, Newman. A stop at Patterson for coffee.

Syntax of Things Jeff, who is not originally from California, tells me that most people around the country have an image of movie stars and beaches in their mind when they think of this place. They have no idea how small a portion of California is actually like that.

Much of the state is desert, mountain, and farms: lettuce, grapes, avocados, citrus, almonds, pistachios, just about any kind of berry. Migrant workers toil in the unrelenting sun, day after day. I always chuckle when someone says “they” are taking our jobs.

We continued through Tracy and Lathrop, to our final destination. The old stadium, Billy Hebert Field, is in the middle of a city park, some distance from the freeway, near a large cemetary. It had character and history (and poor lighting), but wasn’t necessarily the most comfortable place to watch a game.

The new ballpark, however, lies adjacent to the Stockton Deep Water Channel. It is just off the freeway, and a steady breeze comes in off the channel from beyond right field.

We sat in Section 103, along the outer lip of the infield on the third base side. Almost immediately, three thoughts struck me:

1. This is a gorgeous park, sort of a scaled down version of Sacramento’s Raley Field.
2. I went to high school wth the Ports’ manager, Todd Steverson (it was a large school and he wouldn’t know me from Adam; the best connection you could make is that I took a social studies class or two that the baseball coach taught).
3. The Ports are an A’s affiliate. The free Game Day magazine talks about whether the new park favors hitters or pitchers more. It uses ISO and HR/G to make its case, and when discussing pitching performance notes that “ERA is not the fairest measure case since it relies on the subjective judgment of official scorers.” (As if to prove this latter point, San Jose’s third baseman was charged during the game with an error on a pop foul that he never touched.) Also, a hitter’s OBP is displayed on the digital scoreboard when he comes to the plate.

The game itself was a pitchers’ duel for the most part. Oakland prospect Richie Robnett went deep at some point, which I managed to miss. The one guy on the Giants’ side who I’ve seen a couple times and who has impressed me is Eddy Martinez-Esteve. Like Xavier Nady and Conor Jackson before him, Martinez-Esteve is a strapping kid who drives the ball to all fields and who seldom chases a bad pitch. Keep an eye on him.

As for the ballpark, I took a stroll around the perimeter during the middle innings. Unlike at most Cal League facilities, the area beyond the outfield fences is accessible here.

Working clockwise from the third base side, I made a stop in the left field corner, where you can stand and look down onto the field. If you’ve had a few beers and you can’t figure out a more productive way to spend your evening and/or life, you can easily heckle the left fielder for a short while before security steps in and suggests some alternative activities.

One such activity might be visiting the barbecue beyond center field for tri-tips. I didn’t partake (a tad pricey and the line was long), but they smelled great. Also, there’s a nice little patio area out there where you can sit and watch the game from a vantage point not available elsewhere in the Cal League.

The field and water both remain in clear view throughout the walk beyond the outfield. Continuing along, the first base side is adorned with spacious batting cages and private boxes for corporate groups.

Eventually I made it back to my seat and watched the home team win. After the game, fireworks danced above the water, but we were already headed out of town, toward Modesto.

Another night in the Cal League. Another lonely town in the middle of the state, away from the beaches and movie stars, where baseball is played in humble, honest parks and where young men chase their dreams.