For a sport that fields nine players at a time, usually with the highest-paid stars in the lineup, it is possible that none of them will play in today’s game; at best, some of them might play a third of it.
For a sport in which the home team usually thrives on playing in its own ballpark, the game I’m watching today is being played 1,000 miles away from the home team’s ballpark.
Why, then, would 7,000 people pay between $12 and $33 to watch the Philadelphia Phillies play the Houston Astros in the middle of a weekday afternoon in March in Gulf Coast Florida?
Even after seven Springs of watching Grapefruit League games in eight Sunshine State stadiums—like today’s game at Bright House Field in Clearwater—I can’t presume to speak for the other 6,999 spectators in the stands, but I am reasonably sure that at least some of them are here today for the same reasons as I.
The majority of folks who attend these games generally fall into three categories. The first group is made up of the retirees who have lived most of their lives outside of Florida but now call the state home year-round. The second group consists of “Snowbirds”: retirees who pass three or four winter months in Florida but live elsewhere the rest of the year. The last group, of which I am a member, is composed of empty-nesters, young couples, and families on vacation for a week or two.
As generationally different as we may be, we all have one thing in common: we yearn to escape the East Coast and Mid-western snowdrifts, the back-breaking shoveling, the plows that dump the snow just cleared from your driveway back in your driveway, the numbing cold, and those damn ice dams in the gutters.
This place, this stadium, is where we meet to put out of our minds those not-so-distant, unpleasant memories to make room for the distant, more pleasing ones we associate with this splendid game of Spring and Summer.
At game time today—precisely 1:05 pm—the temperature in Clearwater is only about ten degrees warmer than it is in Philadelphia. Everyone in the stadium knows this thanks to a first-inning ritual—a 30-second weather broadcast on the jumbo screen in left field—which features a local meteorologist who announces, with a broad smile, the current temps in Clearwater and Philly.
In years past I have witnessed dramatic differences—from between 20 to 40 degrees. On those occasions, I can attest that the beneficiary of the loudest cheers of the day is not a baseball player but rather that forecaster with the shining white teeth!
Temperatures in the 70s, warm gulf breezes, the smell of sunscreen mixed with the aromas of cheesesteaks and brat fresh off the barbi, seagulls circling and sometime alighting in centerfield, even those distracting ballgirls from Hooters down the right and left field foul lines make it easy to forget about those back-to-back killer snowstorms in Maryland in February.
The second reason I love to come here is for the access. In no major league stadium can a fan get as close to so many players, managers and coaches (most of whom are former players) as he or she can in a Grapefruit League park. All the parks are autograph- and photograph-friendly, and the players and coaching staff expect and seem to genuinely enjoy the interaction with the fans.
While taking some pictures prior to the start of the game, at one point I had to step aside for two retirees who were making their way down the stairs and onto the field. Turns out they were on their way to meet with the Phillies manager. I was close enough to take some pictures of all of them.
When I returned to my seat before the first pitch, I had occasion to talk to one of the guys, who happened to be wearing one of those tropical fish shirts that even AARP members can only get away with in Florida. He was sitting in the seat in front of me and when I asked him how he managed that slick move, he explained that he and his buddy had gone to school with the manager, but that they hadn’t seen him for over 50 years! Despite the passage of time, the Phillies manager recognized them and invited them down to reminisce while he autographed some baseballs for them before the game. Now that’s access!
Unfortunately, I’m not able to send Trop Fish Shirt the nice digital photograph I took of him and his school chums. He may be the owner of a cool knit, but he has no email!
Young fans sitting in the first ten rows always have a reasonable chance of walking away with a souvenir baseball every half inning, as players routinely toss them to the kids in the crowd on their way to the dugout.
In the third inning of today’s game, an "adult" stepped in front of a kid and intercepted one of the balls—the kind of signature move that has earned the City of Brotherly Love sports fans a somewhat tainted reputation. The player who tossed it and followed its flight into the hands of this villain was on the verge of going ballistic when the “adult,” taking note of the reaction, quickly came to his senses and turned the ball over to the child, thereby avoiding a potentially ugly scene on this lovely day at the park.
For kids of every age, there’s a certain thrill associated with being so close to the playing field, which all these stadiums afford. Today at Bright House the grass is intensely green and appears to have just returned from its regularly scheduled appointment at the Aveda salon. The infield dirt is Crayola chocolate brown, lightly dampened about 20 minutes before game time, with a result so perfectly smooth and serene it’s almost a shame anyone has to run on it. The grounds crew tends to the infield with enough care and precision to make even the gardeners at Versailles blush.
The game itself is accessible to the fans. Parents can take their kids without having to dip into the college tuition savings account. Women can get into and out of the restroom within five minutes! Concessions are plentiful and the lines are manageable. If you prefer, you can let the food and drink come to you.
Although this arrangement is no different from what one finds in the major league parks, the vendors seem more casual, even entertaining, perhaps because they don’t have to walk so far lugging around those back-breaking containers filled with beer, soft drinks and peanuts. It might also be that they have fewer badly behaved customers to contend with, although beer went on sale here this morning at 11:00 am.
For example, the middle-aged, pony-tailed “Beer Man” works the crowd hard, but takes time to chat and joke with the fans. During “last call,” he pleads with the crowd to buy one more beer so he can get a haircut and buy a new pair of shoes for his aching feet.
“Lemonade Man” has a standard mantra, which is amusing in the first inning, annoying by the fourth, but then as familiar by the seventh-inning stretch as the crack of a bat: “Dehydration, just say no. Lemonade, just say yo.” Cos-tan-za!
Even though “Italian Ice Man” is hawking three different colors—red, white and blue—today there are no takers. A couple of minutes later, he reappears in a yellow lemonade shirt carrying a rack of tall cups with those built-in straws. Unlike his colleague, however, he doesn’t have a catchy tune, and just can’t move his product.
Finally, for an avid Phillies fan such as I who hasn’t lived in the Philadelphia area since 1976, last attended a home game when the club played at Veterans Stadium, and only catches the Phils on TV or when they come to DC to play the Nationals, there is something comforting and reassuring about being surrounded by a community of like-minded souls, all wearing old- and new-school red caps and shirts!
I had to chuckle, however, at a few of those $95 replica jerseys with “C. Lee” on the back, a star from last year’s team who was traded during the winter to Seattle.
For a few blissful hours, I am in my comfort zone; I feel connected to my extended family, and to all those memories, good and bad, dating from 1960, when I first became assimilated into the Pinstripe Collective. Between 1960 and 2009, the 49 years I’ve been following the Phillies, they have played 7,952 regular season games, winning 3,936 of these, or 49.5%. Not that I’m keeping score!
This is also a very aberrant Philly crowd. Everyone is relaxed. There are smiles all around. Only gulls, no boo birds are in attendance. A lot of people are kicking back and enjoying themselves, the weather, and the game. Of course, today’s game has no effect on the pennant race. This is not to say that the fans are not paying attention or holding the players accountable—far from it.
For example, a shortstop fighting for a roster spot as a utility infielder made two fielding errors on easy plays in consecutive innings. In the next inning, upon fielding the ball cleanly and throwing out the runner, he was serenaded with a Bronx cheer. When he tipped his hat to the crowd, everyone laughed. If that were to happen in July, the shortstop wouldn’t dare make such a gesture, and it might not be boos alone reigning down on his head.
One of my greatest pleasures is to talk up the people sitting in my section, just to find out what brings them here and where they come from. I especially like the retirees, many of whom have Spring Training season tickets and have a very long and intimate history with and love of the Phillies organization. They are not bashful, however, about expressing their discomfort with the way the game is played today or with the amount of money the players “earn.” Some of them actually care who wins today’s game.
As I watch the 9th inning unfold, during which the Phillies eventually score a run to break a tie and win the game on a clutch pinch-hit single, my mind begins to wander.
I wonder how many of the key players will remain healthy throughout the 162-game season and thereby keep alive the promise of another successful campaign.
I wonder what Gail and I will do with the rest of our day. Hit the gulf beaches? Play a round of miniature golf? Dine on the beach? Stop at the Salvador Dali museum on the way home? I forget momentarily that we’re empty-nesters—we can do whatever we want! Maybe we’ll do everything.
And what about next year? I’m hoping I can talk Gail into two Spring trips: one back here, and the other to Arizona. I’ve never seen a Cactus League game!
That just doesn’t seem right.
