Opening Day

For those of you who couldn't make the reading I'm posting it here, introductions and all. This piece will eventually appear as part of Season Pass, likely as the lead-up to Opening Day 2009. Enjoy!

LAURIE FREEMAN (M.C.): It gives me great pleasure to introduce Vern Nicholson, who has spent the past four years honing his mystic/autistic memoir Leilani's Gift. Now Vern is embarking on a new work, the baseball-themed Season Pass, from which he will read tonight.

VERN: Thanks, Laurie, and thank you all for coming. Good evening. [Produces the actual pass] Exhibit A: the Toronto Blue Jays Season Pass. For $95, the bearer is entitled to one seat in the upper deck for any game during the 2009 season. This lends itself to a mad quest on my part: to attend all 81 games this year. To heighten the drama, our hero was inspired to couple his rabid pursuit of baseball with one far more daunting—asking 81 women out, one for each game attended. Tonight I’d like to read an excerpt from Season Pass called “Opening Day.”

April 7, 1977: Snow blankets Toronto’s Exhibition Stadium. Forty-four thousand await the start of our first major-league baseball game. White Sox second baseman Jack Brohamer takes full advantage, skiing across the powdery infield using catcher’s pads and two baseball bats. The neophytes in the stands take little notice. Baseball in the snow… what’s wrong with that?

Labatt’s, makers of a popular beer called Blue, owned the franchise. A name-the-team contest was held the previous summer, and the squad was christened “Blue Jays” in hopes that “the Blues” would catch on as a nickname. From day one, the home nine has been known as the Jays. Yes, there is a God.

A teenage nerd, I’d handed Mom’s note to Mr. Tullo, my homeroom teacher, that morning. God forbid I should skip school for anything, least of all a sporting event. My friend Jeremy did likewise and, legit and good to go, we hopped on the Ossington bus with his older brother, Jason. This was “Opening Day” in baseball parlance, and we didn’t know what to expect. If Opening Day was special, an annual rite that dampened the darkest of winters, what did that make this, Toronto’s first? I felt like I stood at the dawn of time.

“Okay, Cyc,” Jason said with a sly grin. “Let’s test your baseball knowledge. What’s ERA?” Cyc, short for Cyclops—a sobriquet earned in ‘72 when I was whacked in the eye by a frozen tennis ball. This was Jason’s first big-league game too, but he’d followed the Expos on TV for years. He was older. He knew his stuff.

“Uh … Estimated Runs Allowed?” Jeremy cackled, though I could tell he didn’t know either. We got off at Rogers and Dufferin to wait in the cold for the 29. “Well, it’s a pitching stat. You got that at least,” Jason said. “ERA. Earned Run Average.” I stared at him blankly. “How many earned runs a pitcher allows per nine innings.”

“An earned run means the team scored with hits, not errors,” Jeremy offered, eager to impress. “Right,” Jason nodded as the bus pulled up. “Man, this is historic, and we’ll be able to say we were there.”

And I was. My ticket stub proves it: right field reserved bench (and that’s what they were—section-long, frigid aluminum benches), Section 5, Row 5, Seat 27, $3.00, enter through Gate 11. A star-crossed Texan named Doug Ault would be the first Blue Jay hero, belting two homers that day in a 9-5 Toronto win.

After Opening Day and the big victory, I was shocked to discover that the Blue Jays would play again the next day. And the next day, and the day after that, and every day that week, and then another week’s worth of away games. My sporting rhythms, attuned to the football Argonauts’ 16-game schedule, couldn’t quite grasp that these guys played 162 from now till the end of September—81 here, 81 on the road.

By this time, we neighbourhood kids had taken to the diamond ourselves. I couldn’t catch, run, throw, or hit, but I could be counted on to bring the radio. Day after day, I tucked my RCA transistor inside my glove so we could follow the Jays on CKFH. Tom Cheek and Early Wynn, a hall-of-fame pitcher none of us had heard of, called every game. Tom was a veteran broadcaster, a laid-back Floridian with a sonorous baritone and a dry wit. Early? Well, he may have won 300 games, but his cryptic drawl translated poorly to radio.

The same couldn’t be said for this exotic, thoroughly American pastime. Slow enough to let Tom paint a picture, a nine-inning game left plenty of room for Early’s tales from yesteryear. Baseball on the radio was like a tall glass of lemonade on a hot day: gulp it down and you miss the point.

With no intent, these upstart Blue Jays had plugged us into the way-back machine, a timeless Norman Rockwell within. Popcorn, a dog, and a drink. Bleacher bums heckling the ump. A walk-off single to send ‘em home smiling. The race for the pennant. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, misfits and average Joes coming of age, echoing, foretelling, being. In baseball a team could never run out of time, only outs. Time-less.

Beyond the ritual lay the language, the syntax of the ol’ ball game. As Tom and Early soon taught me, statistical terms like ERA were just the launch pad. To follow the dance, I had to understand sac bunts, double plays, walk-offs and rundowns, slurves and sliders. Along the way I asked my fair share of dumb questions. (Why was there a “designated” hitter? Weren’t they all hitters?)

Once I could really tell rundowns from walk-offs, I was ready for southpaws, submariners, and suicide squeezes, nightcaps and no-nos, Texas Leaguers and Baltimore Chops. Meanwhile, Tom and Early held master class daily on CKFH. Each home stand or road trip was a university-of-the-air with your hosts, Professors Emeriti from Cooperstown U.

“And Ashby has earned himself a Golden Sombrero. Waaay out in front on that change-up.” (Ashby struck out for the fourth time, swinging at a slow pitch before it reached the plate.)

“That hot shot just handcuffed Garcia. Wise choice to eat the ball.” (Garcia had so much trouble catching a line drive he had no play at any base.)

“Whoa! Guidry was singin’ a little chin music there, Tom.” (Guidry threw at the batter’s head; in his playing days, Early was a chin-music maestro.)

To double the fun, Tom had a few Cheekisms, wry turns of phrase uniquely his own: “Seems Mr. Garvin here can’t stand prosperity” told us that pitcher Jerry Garvin had blown yet another big lead. “It’s Katie-bar-the-door” meant the opposition had loaded the bases and was threatening to tie or go ahead. And if, for instance, an opponent snagged a scorching liner that should have been the game-winning double, Tom would say, “Mercy. Now, that makes you want to go back to the clubhouse and tear all the fuzz off your T-shirts.”

The ’77 Blue Jays gave us ample opportunities to ravage our clothing. Our heroes were zeroes, luminaries of the diamond like Otto “The Swatto” Vélez, Tim Nordbrook, Sam Ewing, and Jeff Byrd, who went 2-13 in his first and only season in the majors. Oh, and a 6.18 ERA. The team finished 54-107, 45½ games behind the first-place New York Yankees. Race for the pennant … ¿qué?

Jeremy, Jason, and I didn’t care—baseball had come to the Ex! Little did it matter that Exasperation Stadium was the majors’ worst venue, the only ballpark where a game has ever been called due to wind (April 30/84 vs. Texas; 6’4” hurler Jim Clancy was blown off the mound, somehow managing six pitches before the umpires shut it down).

Thirty-two years from that blustery Thursday in ‘77, I’m a middle-aged nerd, my Blue Jays wear black, a soccer field sits atop a levelled Exhibition Stadium, and Tom Cheek—who called 4,306 games before brain cancer got him—lies in a simple plot in Clearwater, Florida. These days the boys play at Rogers Centre, a concrete behemoth with a roof … great for snowy days like this April 6th, 2009.

So ditch the skis, Jack Brohamer, and bar the door, Katie, wherever you are. It’s Opening Day, the Tigers are in town, and I’ve signed up for all 81 games. Halladay winds and it’s time to play ball!

All 81? Mercy.

Parliament Writers Read!

The Parliament Writers' Group is holding its annual reading, and you, dear reader of the blog, are invited! I'll tantalize you with an excerpt from Season Pass, my baseball-themed work-in-progress. Meanwhile, my friends will regale you with tales of unsung heroes, small-town scandals, wild women, messed-up men, and more. As I have a 7:10 ballgame to attend that night I'll be up first, so get there early.

Come hear us read! Refreshments provided and admission is free.

Monday, June 29
6:00-8:00 p.m.
Community Room, 2nd Floor, Parliament Library
269 Gerrard St. E., Toronto

The Non-Alcohol Section: So Wet I Need a Raincoat

Mr. Mario Coutinho
Vice-President, Stadium Operations & Security
Toronto Blue Jays Baseball Club
1 Blue Jays Way, Suite 3200
Rogers Centre
Toronto, Ontario M5V 1J1

Dear Mr. Coutinho:

I am a loyal Blue Jays fan who attends upwards of 70 games per season. A lifelong non-drinker for a variety or reasons, I choose to sit in the non-alcohol section (520/521).

I wish to draw your attention to the failure of Rogers Centre to consistently maintain Section 520/521 as an alcohol-free section, a state of affairs that hampers my enjoyment of the game.

First off, I wish to note that by and large, your ushers do a good job of enforcing the non-alcohol policy. When they happen to spot a guest consuming alcoholic beverages in the prohibited area, they politely inform the guest that the section is alcohol-free and ask them to move. Yes, most guests do comply, but I raise this point to illustrate the crux of the problem: ushers shouldn’t have to haul hordes of beer-drinking patrons out of this section night after night.

Why do drinkers flock to an ostensibly alcohol-free section? I offer several reasons:

• Inadequate signage. Unless a patron is looking for one of the modest signs adoring the passageway from the concourse to seating areas, one would never know that this section has been designated alcohol-free. There is absolutely no signage in the seating area. This paucity of signage can be rectified by: (a) painting the seats in 520/521 a different colour; (b) slapping a (large, visible) sticker on every seat in the section—perhaps a beer stein enclosed in a red circle with the words “NON-ALCOHOL SEATING AREA” would do the trick; (c) hanging a banner in the top row that spans the width of the section, with graphics/text as in (b) above (the banner would be immediately visible to patrons as they turn to go up the stairs to their seats); (d) providing larger and more plentiful signage throughout the concourse.

• Lack of awareness. A simple in-stadium announcement, together with a graphic on the video board, could be made once per game—ideally in the second or third inning—to ensure that all fans at Rogers Centre (a) know that this section (and the corresponding Level 100- and 200-areas) exists, and (b) are reminded that those who choose to sit in these sections cannot consume alcoholic beverages.

• Improperly trained beer vendors. On at least three occasions, I have seen beer vendors (a) hawking beer in the non-alcohol section and/or (b) selling beer to patrons seated in the section. Presumably, neither the vendor nor the patrons realize that the section has been designated alcohol-free. Beer vendors must be trained to (a) refrain from hawking beer in the non-alcohol section; and (b) refrain from selling beer to patrons seated therein. (Ignorance on the patron’s part is not a valid excuse.)

• This-section’s-empty-hey-let’s-sit here syndrome. I understand that—despite its prime location down the first base line—520/521 is usually the most sparsely populated section in the upper deck because the vast majority of guests prefer beer with their baseball. That’s fine, but the lure of empty seats combined with inadequate signage and utter lack of awareness (see above) ensures a steady stream of “migrants” into 520/521. As noted earlier, the ushers do their best to stem the tide; with adequate signage and increased awareness they wouldn’t have to.

• Strategically misplaced concourse beer stand. If Rogers Centre is serious about creating a non-alcohol seating area in Section 520/521, why is a Budweiser cart situated in the concourse directly behind Sections 520 and 521? Irrespective of the actual seat number printed on their tickets, patrons tend to line up, grab their beer, and head up the nearest aisle, which of course leads directly to the non-alcohol seating area.

I love watching baseball, but I can’t say I enjoy the split focus that makes up my in-game experience. I spend half my time focusing on the field and the other half playing unofficial section cop. Often the usher is busy tending to other duties, or there are too many migrating drinkers for one usher to handle.

It is my steadfast belief that implementing the simple structural changes outlined above would go a long way toward making Rogers Centre a more hospitable place for drinkers and non-drinkers alike. Though I may be the only one writing, I’m not the only regular in this section who is troubled by these ongoing infractions. As such, I urge you to give my concerns your utmost consideration.

Sincerely,


Vern C. Nicholson

cc: Richard Wong, Senior Vice-President, Stadium Operations
Liquor Enforcement, Alcohol and Gaming Commission of Ontario

Mix Tape Goes Digital

I know, I know: old news, right? Maybe for you, tech-savvy young'un, but grandpa here just purchased his first mp3 player and is having a blast programming it, which brings me to the subject of today's civics class.

Programming music is an art, one that should be a highly prized social skill. (Why most people care far more about, e.g., the layout of a garden or the presentation of snooty food is utterly beyond me. But I digress.)

Let's begin with issues of top-down structure. I'm old enough to remember when albums were meant to be listened to in totality, in sequence. Thus, my player contains as many complete albums as I could fit onto it (roughly twelve). These are then categorized by genre (jazz, classical, folk, rock, electronica), a feast of full works as the artists intended them.

There are, of course, times when a listener wants a little of this, a little of that. Sure, I could simply use the "shuffle" function but that's too random for my tastes. As one who prefers to program the music's peaks and valleys, I've created a Top 150, a digital jukebox if you will. It too has an overarching structure: one song per artist. This simple dictum in place, we're ready to blast into sonic nirvana. Allow me to introduce you to some of my musical heroes ...

As any performer will tell you, you want to start and finish with a bang. For me, that means kicking off with Game Theory's "Leilani" (a chiming, surreal ode to my beloved via her pseudonym), "Broken" by The Guess Who (the most under-appreciated B-side of all time; Kurt Winter's solo is stunning), and "The Family of Man" by Three Dog Night (what's the sound of one jaw dropping—Danny, Chuck, and Cory, in that order, showing off their pipes). The latter two hearken back to '71-'72, back to my youth, back to the first music I heard that had mojo.

From here we weave our way into and out of the '60s, '70s, '80s, '90s and occasionally '00s, rarely in that order. We rage in teenage indignation with Husker Du's "In a Free Land," shake our cerebellums to Japan's brainy synth-pop ("Still Life in Mobile Homes"), imbibe the pioneering ambiance of Pink Floyd ("Echoes"—yes, the full 23 minutes), and soulfully "Drift Away" with Dobie Gray.

At Song 24 comes our first thematic pairing: "Venus" by Television and "Venus" by The Shocking Blue. (Compiler's note: Bananarama's "Venus" would be both redundant and inferior. As for Frankie Avalon, not a fucking chance! This mp3 player is cheese-free.)

Song 38 introduces the "sunlight" section of the proceedings. Jonathan Edwards' clipped, caustic "Sunshine" is followed by Richie Havens' exuberant remake of "Here Comes the Sun." Add the trippy "That Ole Sun" by modern psych-meisters The Sunshine Fix and you've got your daily dose of Vitamin D and then some.

Some pairings aren't quite so obvious. Consider Songs 45 and 46, Nick Drake's "Northern Sky" and "Life in a Northern Town" by The Dream Academy. I didn't know until recently that the latter was written for/about Nick Drake. Perhaps not coincidentally, both share an ethereal, mystical quality.

Then there are the strictly musical marriages. For instance, at Song 112 I love the way the final chord of Moby Grape's galloping "Rounder" segues into the almost-identical opening of "Kinder Murder" by Elvis Costello. (Note too the completely unconscious "-er" pairing!) The Washington Squares ("New Generation"), Tracy Chapman ("Talkin' 'Bout a Revolution"), Gordon Lightfoot ("Steel Rail Blues"), and Joan Baez ("The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down") form a shimmering folk quartet at Song 97, and let's hear it for this salvo o' soul at Song 106: "Why Can't We Live Together" (Timmy Thomas), "Let's Stay Together" (Al Green), "Funky Nassau" (The Beginning of The End), "Sex Machine" (James Brown). Ow!

I enjoy making "lineage" pairings as well. Though (deliberately) not chronological, the sequence of Teenage Fanclub, Small Faces, The Who and Paul Weller at Song 137 makes eminent musical sense to any student of rock. In a more cultural vein, check out the trio starting at Song 82: "Woodstock" (Matthews' Southern Comfort), "With a Little Help From My Friends" (Joe Cocker, live at Woodstock), and "Moonshadow" (Cat Stevens). The festival's euphoria is first told by a band (and songwriter) who weren't there, shown in process, and spat back in your face through an early-'70s confessional.

As mentioned earlier, it behooves us to end with a flourish, so without further ado I offer The Crescendo, from Song 145: Kate Bush, "The Man With the Child in His Eyes"; Jefferson Starship's epic "St. Charles"; The English Beat, "End of the Party"; The Waterboys, "Spirit"; and Santana's "Every Step of the Way," a white-hot rush of molten fusion ecstasy. If you listen carefully all four touch on transcendence through love, personal or transpersonal.

And once you've fired all your guns, what else to do but lay down your weary tune in the form of Song 150, the hypnotic "Universal Copernican Mumbles." Turn 'em every which way but loose, then let 'em down easy. Sure, this Paul Kantner/Grace Slick tone poem arguably violates the one-song-per-artist rule, especially situated a scant four songs from the Starship. But in that spirit, I beg off with words from Herr Kaptain himself:

There are three rules of rock 'n' roll;

unfortunately, no one knows what they are.

- Paul Kantner, after W. Somerset Maugham

Season Pass Update

Ze pass 'as been procured, boss, and the first six dates have been sought. Am thoroughly enjoying MLB's Gameday Audio package (a steal at CAN$19), which has allowed me to eavesdrop on spring games from across the majors. As for the dating, I'm 0-for-1 with 5 responses pending, but my refusal to take things personally is perhaps the biggest development. Hope I can keep that up.

Browsing the profiles is amusing. Today's biggest chuckle was elicited by a woman who announced off the top, "IM not lookin for FREAKS." Rest assured, darling, freaks aren't "lookin" for you either.

One week to Opening Day! Projected starters are Roy Halladay and the Tigers' Justin Verlander.