On Baseball

I came late to baseball. I'd been to a few games in Chicago during and after college as a thing to do with friends, but I didn't get serious about it until I lived in DC. My office neighbor was a passionate Orioles fan, and by osmosis I picked up a love for the game: the pace, the stats, the stories that unfold over a season. I read O's coverage every day in the Post at lunch, initially just to have something to talk about but eventually for its own merits. It didn't hurt that it was during Cal Ripken Jr's run at the consecutive game record. When I moved to California, my loyalties shifted to the A's and my appreciation deepened, particularly when we invested in 20-game ticket packages each year. I could still mimic for you the pre-batting rituals of Frank Menechino, one-time second baseman: tightening each glove and pushing up his wristbands. I loved Moneyball, both the book and the movie.

But beyond a given team, I like the sport and its aesthetics. It doesn't really matter who is playing; not much is better than a warm summer evening, fresh air, cold beer and a sodium-laden ballpark snack. (I spent plenty of nights in multiple layers of coats and blankets in the Oakland fog, too, but those aren't the ones you reminisce about.) Some games are high-stakes and demand that every at-bat and every pitch be followed intently. Others are are an excuse to produce some Vitamin D.

And then you have the mascots. Stashed away I have autographed ticket stubs from Stomper, the A's elephant; Crusher, the Sonoman sasquatch; and Youppi, the non-species-specific mascot of the late Montreal Expos. Minor league teams have great mascots. We'll be visiting the homes of Guilford the Grasshopper, Wool E. Bull, Muddy the Mudcat, Bolt, Conrad the Crawdad, and Mr. Moon.

In New York I've been to a game apiece at each of the Yankees and Mets' old and new stadiums, but the ticket prices prohibit making it a habit. Enter the minor leagues. The quality of ballplaying may be a few notches lower, and there's no chance of fielding a Barry Bonds foul (I came close once and shied away -- it was traveling fast), but the beer and peanuts are the same. The lower budgets mean more interesting inter-innings events and promotions, too. When the "pancake batter of the game" hit a homer for the Vancouver Canadians, we all won free breakfast coupons to a neighborhood restaurant. The late Sonoma Crushers rounded up two-year-olds for Tot Racing. Several ballparks have labradors to fetch fouls.

Expect a full report on the stadiums, teams, concessions and mascots for each game this summer. If any of them can top the tri-tip steak sandwiches and grape-stomping sasquatch from Sonoma County, we'll be in great shape.

How it all began

North Carolina barbecue brought about one of Jane's and my big relationship milestones. About seven months after we started dating, I invited her to Greensboro for the 4th of July. "We can have Stamey's Barbecue!" I told her rapturously. Jane was duly enthusiastic and it was only after I had her attention that I allowed that a trip from NYC to Greensboro for lunch not only meant that she would meet my parents, but that we would stay with my parents. We laughed nervously, when I said this.

When my parents picked us up at the airport, Stamey's was the first place we went. We took it to Country Park and ate lunch by the charming and somewhat rectangular lake around which the park is built. That meal took on a special poignancy since my mother passed away unexpectedly the following month. It was one of the last meals I ever ate with her. It was the last Stamey's with her and growing up in my house, Stamey's was a was a very big deal.

Jane bought a guide to North Carolina barbecue in the airport on the way home. Perusing it, I had to admit that despite my family's enthusiasm for barbecue sandwiches and hushpuppies, I was almost entirely ignorant of the regional variations. I couldn't authoritatively say what was Lexington barbecue, or comment on the virtues of vinegar versus tomato based sauce. The first trip for us as a couple was followed by several more in quick succession; to scatter my mother's ashes on Ocracoke Island in the Outer Banks, and then to go kayaking with my father on the the New River. Each of these trips included an excursion to a new barbecue restaurant. The added bonus was that we could do it in honor of my mother. We visited Wilber's in Goldsboro and Carolina Bar-B-Q in Statesville. We started to talk about how great it would be to organize a trip to the state dedicated to really appreciating the pleasures of pulled pork. Traveling across the state for a week or so would allow me to catch up with 5-6 sets of friends and countless family that I almost never get to see. After several somewhat indulgent vacations, we decided that 2012 might the year to stay closer to home. It seemed perfect year to dedicate ourselves to become barbecue aficionados.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

July 4, 2011. We were sitting in the underpass of the Greensboro airport watching a ripping thunderstorm roll in and delay our flight back to New York. We had just finished a long holiday weekend that took us from Greensboro to Statesville, Todd, Boone and back again. "You know what would be great..." I said.

I have a history of planning ridiculously complicated, logistics-bound expeditions, usually involving food. On three separate occasions I have dragged friends through all five boroughs of New York (well, once was the length of Manhattan, on foot) on a quest for dumplings of many nations. Our vacation to Mexico in 2009 involved multiple air legs and two train rides and three days in an SUV bouncing to the bottom of the Copper Canyon and back.

So it was only a matter of time before our regular trips to North Carolina to visit Claudia's homeland fell into my machinations. Not entirely unrelated: I love North Carolina barbecue (Claudia is currently telling me I have to spell it with a c. It hurts me.) and have a long history of cooking large hunks of pork. Also, I love baseball, particularly minor league baseball with its goofy mascots, rickety parks, and charming between-innings promotional contests.

Within an hour, possibly lubricated by a couple beers at the airport's lone and nearly empty bar, a plan had emerged. A cross-state road trip built around the state's multiple minor league teams and its many, many esteemed temples of pulled pork. In December we started marking out home game schedules on a calendar. In March we bought tickets and booked a rental car. In July 2012, we're heading to the Tarheel State. We'll be photographing and commenting on the food, the games, and our almost comical inability to bring enough music for the road.