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.