Roger Pires June 09, 2011
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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The old ball game
It was Harry Caray’s kind of day. The rays of a brilliant afternoon sun lighting up a freshly-groomed baseball diamond. The hum of the crowd filling in those long, often tense gaps between the bat hitting the ball and the umpire’s emphatic calls of balls and strikes. On days like this, the late Chicago Cubs broadcaster would arise in his booth and address the adoring legions beaming in reverence from the pews of Wrigley Field. Their beloved Cubs had not hung a World Series banner since the days when a gallon of gasoline cost 20 cents and the First World War had yet to benight the pages of history.
To generations of fans who had never experienced the tonic of victory, Harry’s paean to the Grand Old Game was often the highlight of the night. The anthem was about more than just wins and losses; it transcended pennant races and even the World Series itself. When Harry belted out, “Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd…” in that familiar vibrato, it was a celebration of tradition, of home, of family. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters down at the ballpark watching grown men playing a child’s game. It was Major League Baseball as national treasure, and with the expansion into Canada, it became an international one.
But an afternoon at the old ball game in Toronto means first having to stew in hopeless gridlock on the Don Valley Parking Lot. A couple of Saturdays ago, I scored tickets to the Blue Jays game at the Skydome/Rogers Centre/(insert corporate flavour of the month here). My son had never been to a game and I wanted to offer him a taste of those glory days when the hometowners were hanging World Series banners from the rafters. To pass the time, I regaled him with tales of Joe Carter home runs (“touch ‘em all, Joe!”), leaping Devon White catches, and Dave Stieb no-hitters. I informed him that the Jays beat the Chicago White Sox – the team the Jays would be playing that day – to win the 1993 American League crown on their way to a second World Series title. However, my impassioned history lesson was drowned out by whatever was on his MP3 player. Unless “Disturbed” did a remake of Caray’s classic, no baseball lore had passed between generations.
We arrived at the Rogers Centre a half-inning in. The kid had been to an Argos game before so he was disturbed to learn that there were no cheerleaders in baseball. There was also no lineup at the snack bar. I handed him a crisp twenty. Could he keep the change? His jaw hitting the floor when I consented registered a six on the Richter scale. He returned with two hot dogs, a Coke, and a look as if he’d been held up at gunpoint. He reported that this paltry purchase had lightened his fortune by 15 bucks and change. He could produce the same result at home for a twonie. Say hello to major league markups, son.
We took our seats in the second row of the second deck along the first base side - fertile ground for foul balls. Armed with his glove, he was ready should any souvenir come whizzing past. By the fifth inning, the only sighting of note was the popcorn vendor. As he approached I handed junior a tenner. Fueled by the warm sun and dad’s money burning a hole in his pocket, the teenaged appetite had soared into overdrive. At the ballpark, transactions between gangly young, vendors and their captive patrons go something like this: patron flags down guy with a tray on his head; the vendor unloads a bushel of popcorn into waiting hands; patron hands over cash; son turns to dad and gripes that he’s just been the victim of grand larceny. Six-and-a-quarter for popcorn! He could produce the same result at home for pennies. Well son, it’s the price you pay for watching the league’s Player of the Month for May – the Jays’ Jose Bautista - park a 2-0 pitch into the left-field bleachers. For the next couple of innings, the kid contemplated how to spend his remaining six-and-a-half bucks; maybe buy a bag of Doritos or a pack of Juicy Fruit.
The game was a slugfest. The teams treated a lead like a live grenade. At the end of nine innings, they were still tied. The baseball gods must’ve known there was new blood in the crowd and they wanted to leave an impression. The teams traded goose eggs until the bottom of the 14th inning when Corey Patterson, the designated hitter, jacked a hanging curve ball into the Jays bullpen and the good guys walked off with a 9-8 victory. The crowd stood and roared. It was a thrilling victory for the home team and another great day for baseball. You could almost hear Harry belting out, “One, two, three strikes you’re out at the old…ball…game.”
