Blogging the San Diego Padres… established 1997

[Since I just got back from the road, I thought it might be fun to look back at another trip. Originally posted June 28, 2001. Aside from a few new links added, this is as it appeared then.]

Having lived in large cities in Southern California almost my entire life, I have certain preconceptions – mostly negative – about places in the middle of the United States. I am happy to say that San Antonio, or at least what I was able to see of it in a too-short period of time, shattered them almost immediately upon arrival.

But the experience made the trip worthwhile. Good stadium, knowledgeable fans, and one of the strangest mascots I’ve ever seen: Ballapeño. Part ball, part jalapeño, this dark green creature roamed the stadium and kept kids of all ages entertained. Still, I couldn’t help but contemplate, with the big biotech conference going on back home in San Diego, the genetics involved in creating such a beast.

[I had a little time to kill on the flight back from Toronto, so I got to thinking. And when I get to thinking, weird things happen. Like the following essay.]

It’s the middle of the third set and the dance floor is packed. You are playing songs people know and love. The audience has expectations of those songs and how they should sound, how they should feel.

As a performer, you always want to strike a balance between the listeners’ expectations and your own desire to create something unique. You are not Angus Young, and no matter how hard you might try to emulate his solo in “Shook Me All Night Long,” it’s never quite right. Your fingers do not know what his fingers know. So you make the solo your own, incorporating key passages and phrasing that the audience will recognize. The solo will seem familiar and keep listeners engaged.

Much of this is a matter of preparation: listening to the original recorded version hundreds of times, attempting to play along with it a bar or two at a time, working out the fingering, learning which parts of the solo are essential to the piece and which can be deleted or altered without damaging the song.

But preparation and real-time execution are different beasts altogether. And so tonight maybe a string breaks and you’re forced to decide, on the fly, whether to try and find the same notes on a different string so that you can still nail the passage, or whether to abandon the orginal plan and veer off in some other direction, hopeful that you do not lose your listeners – the ones dancing right in front of the stage – in the process. Every choice you make has an impact on the performance as a whole and its effect on those in attendance.

Like a baseball game.

I’ve never managed a team of any sort, at any level, so I don’t know what exactly transpires in terms of preparation, execution, and bridging the gap between the two. But I wonder if, say, the thought process for Bruce Bochy when faced with the question of whether to lift a struggling starter for a pinch-hitter early in the game, is anything like what goes on in your head when a string breaks in the middle of an AC/DC song.

With people waiting on your decision right this very moment, there is no luxury of time. You can contemplate and ruminate later, after you’ve made it through the show (and isn’t a baseball game, after all, a show?), and add this instance and any lessons learned from it to your wealth of knowledge in helping you to make a decision in future similar situations.

But for now, you must make a choice on the fly, based on preparation, experience, and (some may shudder at this one) intuition. You make the best choice possible based on what you know, you move forward, and you hope that it works.

I’m not suggesting that baseball managers – or any of us, really – shouldn’t be held accountable for their actions. Obviously they should be. But I do think that we – as critical evaluators of what goes on in each game, every choice that is (or isn’t) made – need to remember the context in which these actions occur. Generally, there are tens of thousands of spectators at the game and potentially millions more (if you’re lucky enough to be the Red Sox or Yankees) watching on television or listening on the radio. There are athletes on the field being paid obscene amounts of money to execute the manager’s plan, even if that plan has to be modified on the fly midstream. In short, there is a lot at stake, and precious little time in which to process too much information and choose the next course of action, in the hope that it will be the right choice.

It’s a little overwhleming when you think about it.

And in this light, I might suggest that we remember context when evaluating a manager’s in-game strategies. This doesn’t mean we can’t – or shouldn’t – rip somebody a new one for making what we think is a boneheaded move, just that we would do well to consider the bigger picture while we’re sitting at home scrutinizing minutiae.

Finally, I must note that I’m telling you this not because I think you don’t already know (I have no doubt you do), but because I, myself, needed the reminder. And the best way I know to clarify what I’m thinking, or what I’m trying to think, is to write it out and tell it to others.

So because I needed some perspective on how and why I analyze and criticize moves made in a particular baseball game (c’mon, it’s just a game!), you had to hear about it also. And if you’ve made it this far, I thank you for indulging me.

If not, hey, I wasn’t talking to you anyway.

The thing about Toronto’s underground walkways, which are very cool, is that you will get lost. It’s not a question of if or even when so much as how often and how badly. And remember, you will need to retrace your steps on the way back. Hint: pebbles are more effective than breadcrumbs.

After making our way through the maze of twisty little food courts, all alike, we finally reach Eaton Centre late in the afternoon. According to the literature, this mall plays host to over a million visitors each week. And although the shopping is adequate, the real attraction is people-watching.

From here we cross Edward Street to the World’s Biggest Bookstore, where I purchase several volumes on writing (always so much more to learn!). We also stumble into a record shop, where I pick up a couple CDs of The Tragically Hip. A reader recommended this Canadian band to me some time ago, and I’ve been meaning to give them a listen since. Better late than never, eh?

Eventually, with aid of neither pebble nor breadcrumb, we return to the hotel room and rest before heading over to watch the Blue Jays one final time.

We score seats directly behind home plate for Friday night’s game against the visiting Brewers. Okay, they are upper tank. But they’re front row and right behind the dish. The roof is open, which means baseballs are flying. (Neither starter survives the third inning.)

Before the contest, we buy hot dogs and Italian sausages from one of the many vendors outside the stadium. This is the way to go. No disrespect to the dogs inside, but they don’t measure up to what you’ll find in the carts along the sidewalk. And the condiments: pickles, onions, peppers, kraut, mustard, mayo, ketchup. Mighty fine, indeed.

Inside, it’s more Alexander Keith. Twenty ounces of smooth.

What I cannot recommend – and this may not be fair because I haven’t actually tried them – are the nachos, which basically are tortilla chips and a packet of processed cheese. I know that’s what nachos are at any ballpark, but most places at least try to disguise this by heating up the “cheese” and dumping it all over the chips. At Rogers Centre, there is no such pretense; there is just a pack ‘o’ cheese.

Left-hander Gustavo Chacin starts for the Blue Jays. He is the first non-Japanese pitcher with a hesitation in his delivery that I can remember. Comparisons are made to Luis Tiant, but I never saw him pitch.

Chacin is staked to leads of 6-0 and 7-1 but, with the roof open and the ball jumping, he cannot hold it and is yanked with one out in the third. A string of relievers stop the bleeding, and the Jays hang on to win, 9-5. Frank Menechino knocks a couple of homers that might’ve been doubles on another night; Eric Hinske hits a bomb to dead center that is a home run anwyhere, anytime.

Aaron Hill, Toronto’s young third baseman, has a sweet line drive stroke. He uses the entire field and isn’t afraid to hit with two strikes. He’s what you want your young hitters to look like. He reminds me a little of Mark Loretta.

Jays first-rounder Ricky Romero (Cal St. Fullerton) signs before the game and makes his first Toronto appearance. The hometown crowd greets him with a warm round of applause. I wonder to myself what, if any, effect Romero’s signing will have on the Padres’ efforts to ink their first-round pick, Cesar Carrillo.

And the Brewers have a few kids of their own that are worth watching. Rickie Weeks, first pick overall in the 2003 draft, gets the start at second base and probably can take off his coat. Actually, someone can take it off for him and hang it up in the closet. Kid is going to be here a while. Weeks sports a Sheffieldesque bat waggle at the plate and can turn on a fastball. Just one game but he looks like a scary talent.

Prince Fielder pinch hits in the ninth and strikes out swinging on a Jason Frasor breaking ball. Fielder is a big dude with a big swing. If he makes good contact, the ball is going a long, long way. I hope to see that someday, preferably against a team other than the Padres.

And the highlight of the night, or at least the most surreal moment, comes during the seventh inning stretch. First everyone sings a moving tribute to the home team (“Is that a fly ball/Or is it a seagull”). Then they kick into a double espresso version of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Faster is better, right?

Soon enough the game is over and we filter back over the trains to Front Street and the warm comfort of the hotel room we’ve called home for the past several days. We’ll be flying back to San Diego the next morning, but already we’ve added Toronto to our short list of cities to visit again in the future. In my mind, I am laying down a trail of pebbles.

I will find my way back here one day.