The excitement was building all morning as the weather guessers tried to determine if the crowd was going to need umbrellas at Nationals Park. There were the usual promotions to help whip up the emotions of the fans- dollar hotdogs and free wifi- though the t-shirts were held back to give out at Saturday’s game.

The fans didn’t care. They have waited through this long brutal winter to celebrate with the Boys of Spring, and as the hour for the first pitch approached, it looked like it was going to stay dry, and the game would come off as scheduled.

The novelty of having MLB back in DC hasn’t quite worn off, but I am mostly over it. When the Nats came to town there was a literal fever to put together consortiums for full and partial ticket packages. I had a partial package with my older boy, but that was over at old RFK, a grand park with plenty of space in the parking lot for tailgating.

It is not that I dislike the new park on the waterfront downtown- it is a pretty slick operation, great views and plenty of amenities that RFK never had. But times being what they are, I decided I don’t care for crowds, or traffic. Add the bum leg and I just began to tune things out.

I was talking to some pals who had done the same thing. I listened to the game on the radio while I drove out to consult with my legal team, and heard the sad pivotal moment of the game in the bottom of the fifth on the way back, crawling along I-66 through the perpetual jam where the lanes narrow at Route 50.

(Upton appeals to the Umps for guidance. Photo Washington Nationals).

Justin Upton was patrolling left field for the Braves as Ian Desmond of the Nats ripped one all the way to the wall, where the ball stuck in a seam under the padding. In real baseball Desmond would have gone after the ball to make the play as Desmond kept chugging around the bases for what looked like the inside-the-park HR as the umps looked on, speechless.

Braves manager Fredi Gonzalez challenged the non-call, and after a five-minute delay (isn’t this game slow enough already?) the homer was turned into a ground rule double. Desmond went back to second, and then was ignominiously picked off going for third. The Nats would up going down by a run, 2-1, spoiling the opener.

Well, it might have been spoiled for someone but I was just happy that they are playing ball again. I strolled into Willow at the usual time and saw that some former associates had played hooky and watched the game on the big screen over at the Front Page sports bar, and were now drinking ice-tea to sober up for the ride home. Leatherneck Ray and Long-Haired Mike (who isn’t, at the moment, but Short haired Mike is working out of town and I guess he is just Mike now) were still pretty fired up.

Old Jim was arguing with Admiral about whether an openly gay former Republican white guy could beat the little-known Democrat lady from Ward 3 who won the primary. Jim is an authority- he had debated Marion Barry several times in his run for the office back in the day, and was of the opinion that only Harold Washington and Barry (first term, sorry) had the qualifications to actually run our little hothouse District.

None of us live there, and only Jim did, for all the obvious reasons, so we gradually migrated off onto important topics like Minor League Baseball.

We have all lived in towns that were un-served by MLB, and one thing we could agree on was that AAA ball offered a lot of things that the Bigs can’t.

In Hawaii, we had the Islanders, a talented little team, small crowds, beautiful weather, and a ballpark just across the street from the McGrew Loop Navy housing where we lived. Tickets were cheap and it was fun to take the little guys over to watch a few innings under the blue skies without worrying too much about who was going to win. In college, we could avoid Detroit’s blighted neighborhood around old Tiger Stadium and watch the Mudhens down in Toledo and legally drink 3.2 beer.

Our pal the Master Chief Boatswains Mate reported that his AAA New Orleans Zephyrs won their opener 2-1 against the Colorado Sky Socks. This early in the spring, the temperatures have not turned to soggy misery in the Crescent City, and from what he heard, it was low 70s at first pitch at high noon.

(Zephyrs park on game day. Photo Eric and Wendy Pastore).

“It is just perfect,” he said, taking a sip of Dogshead Pale Ale. “You show up at the park fifteen minutes before first pitch, plenty of room to spread out and relax, and the promotions are great. Last time I was there me and the wife got special commemorative opening day balls, provided by the Silver Slipper Gambling Casino. Crowds are no more than 10,000- big enough to make noise, but small enough that going to the game isn’t an ordeal.”

“I almost got a gig singing the Anthem for the Islanders,” I said, peering into my glass of pinot noir. “Fell apart, though. Schedule conflicts.”

“We had local Cajun-Zydaco rock star Amanda Shaw sing it at Zephyrs games. She is more popular than Elvis ever was in the Francophone and Southeast parishes. She is probably only 26 now, but she has been on stage since she was seven with her fiddle and bilingual songs. No major crowd producing event is considered complete with out her.”

“Survivors of the Navy Yard shooting threw out the first pitch this afternoon. I don’t know where the President was.”

“They didn’t like his delivery last time he did it,” proclaimed Ray. “I don’t think he played growing up.”

“I bet he went to an Islanders game,” though, I said defensively.

Boats laughed. “Down home, they had the GM and the Parish President each threw out the first pitch.” He crinkled his eyes at the memory. “The Parish President had a terrible arm, his ball went way over the catcher’s extended reach and landed in the netting that protects the seats behind home plate. Everybody cheered like crazy because …” He paused to think of a decent reason and took a sip of beer, “Well, he is the Parish President and we all elected him, so I guess we exempt him from the scumbag politician label like we do for our Sheriff.”

“Anyone know who won the race of the Presidents today at the game?”

The Admiral put down his iced tea and announced that National’s mascot Teddy Roosevelt had beaten the field of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Taft to take a commanding one-to-nothing lead in the season-long competition. “Teddy once went 0-526, but he has been on a tear of late. Maybe this is his year.”

(Boudreaux and Bride. Photo Zephyrs.)

Boats said that the Zephyrs have the “610 Stompers,” an all-male pot bellied, middle aged comic dance troop who gets the Cajun crowd dancing through the game. “But the best mascot is the human-sized nutrias “Boudreaux” and his wife “Cotile.” They bombard the crowd with their famous t-shirt cannons and the “ball park beauties” run their sideline fan participation games at each change of sides. Then at the 7th inning stretch, Boudreaux, Cotile, the 610 Stompers, and the “Ball Park Beauties”) get the crowd up and dancing.”

“Did they win?” I asked.

Boats had to think for a moment. “Why, yes. They did. It took some work, including a really showy steal of second base preceding the final run. There was a standing ovation for the Zephyrs, more dancing and then twenty full minutes of fireworks.”

“That sounds like a magnificent opening day, and no traffic jam when it’s over,” growled Jim.

Boats nodded. “Three hours of sound and light show built around some quality baseball. And the value part? One senior citizen ticket and a free parking coupon for ten bucks!”

We all nodded as Jerry the Barrister plopped down with his son at the end of the bar for a hard cider and the Willow Friday Fish fry. “Anyone go to the game today?” he asked.

“Nah,” we said. “We were at the Triple A game.”

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303