Regular readers of “Much Ado …” know I am a longtime baseball fan. That will never change. But the days for me to make my annual contribution to those who bring us America’s national pastime, may be numbered.
You see, last week, Lady M and I joined a happy and boisterous crowd on the 10:10 a.m. Cal Train from San Jose to The City. All went well until the game got underway. From the first pitch until we could no longer bare the humiliation, we were subjected to a constant barrage of conversations from folks in nearby seats covering everything from eggplant recipes to next year’s vacation plans.
Lady M put it best when she referred to the continuous banter as a cacophony of sound. Although the Giants play was less than inspiring, the conversations that inundated us were distracting, boring and most of all irritating.
Seriously, do these folks really believe that we care how romantic the hotel sounds in some unpronounceable Polish city, or why fresh basil improves the flavor of their pasta gravy. And this goes on for nine innings – well actually only seven innings since we left when the score was 10-1 and our Giants weren’t the team with 10 runs. I wonder why these folks spend good money for tickets – and they aren’t cheap as many of you know – when they could carry on their inane conversations at a local Starbucks and save a bunch.
Years ago, when I saw Satchel Page and Bob Feller pitch for the Cleveland Indians, things were different. Nothing mattered except the game. We saw Stan Musial, Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio. We watched a one-armed outfielder, Pete Gray, perform magic in centerfield for the St. Louis Browns. We could tell you batting averages for dozens of players and we could spot a Phil Niekro knuckle ball from the farthest bleacher.
But now, most folks at the game don’t know or care who is at bat or what Buster Posey does or doesn’t do. It seems that lots of the “fans” have no interest in what is happening on the field. If Kevin Costner’s great movie “Field of Dreams” was made today, the coined phrase would probably be, “Build It and They Will Talk.” What a shame.
One really neat thing did happen. At the beginning of each game, our national anthem is sung, frequently by a well-known talent and occasionally by a local aspiring singer. The day we attended the game, three young ladies – The Honeybee Trio – from Vacaville sang. We had heard them previously with The California Pops Orchestra. They were great and almost made this trip to AT&T Park worthwhile.
In fact, I suspect they would have done a better job on that particular day playing the outfield for the Giant’s had they been given the opportunity.
While on the subject of girl singers – how’s that for a segue? – my interest in jazz has concentrated on girl singers, for years. Now don’t get upset with the term “Girl Singers.” That is what female vocalists were called in the Big Band era and is still a phrase commonly used today, with no negative connotation. (Male singers are referred to as boy singers, in case you wonder.)
I used to say that I “collected girl singers” until Lady M said she was certain there was a better way to describe the emphasis of my record collection. And if I knew what was good for me, I had better find that way, and fast.
So, I now say “I collect recordings made by girl singers.” Better, for sure, but still “girl singers.” I guess Lady M has gotten used to that so I’m OK, at least for now.
When driving, we usually listen to the Sinatra channel on satellite radio and guess who the singers are. Lady M is really good with the boy singers but I have her beat on girl singers. The best part of this game is when a new singer pops up and neither of us can name him or her.
We then have to go to iTunes and see if we have missed something. Great hobby and pretty entertaining. I’m thinking about adding satellite radio to our home entertainment system so we can sit and sip our martinis while we play “Name That Singer” instead of watching our favorite ball club get trounced. Or not.
After all, only a few short weeks until we will be able to watch the San Jose Sharks. Oh happy day. And no one will be sitting near us at a game describing in infinite detail their outrageous jewelry collection. They wouldn’t dare.
Henry “Hank” Miller is a retired rocket scientist.
