Ramblings of a Technology Addict

Thursday, March 27, 2003

A moment of Levity.

Nice.
10:29:04 PM  comment []

*sigh*

The first of those out there who chooses to condemn our troops. He says, "f you abhor the war, you MUST, at some level, oppose the instruments of that war when they are put to an untenable purpose. And that includes the 'troops'." . . . And I guess that makes me the one person in North America who can't honestly say: 'I support our troops.'"
I'm sorry Ozy, but I don't believe this is an untenable purpose. Or would you prefer the Iraqis to be tortured as they were under Saddam?
10:09:44 PM  comment []

Dear Baltimore Orioles.

[This is an open letter to the Baltimore Orioles, sent also to the Fan Feedback Email Address]
To Whom It May Concern:
Last season, for 29 games, I sat in left field, about ten rows up from the wall. It was not inexpensive for me to do this, but I so love the game that I felt it was worth the sacrifice. I had a wonderful time. I paid for the parking package, despite the fact that I found out later, you had overcharged me for the parking passes. So I made the close to 100 mile roundtrip from my home in Arlington, VA several times a month to watch games down at the Yards.
Over the winter, I decided that I couldn't make the season tickets work this year, it was just part of my budget that couldn't remain. It was not a decision I made lightly, and considered many options (including one evening, pondering selling my car) but none were practical. I was saddened, but I consoled myself that I could still go on Opening Day and get bleacher seats for cheap on the weekends.
When I began to look at my calendar this past February, I was blown away to see that the Cleveland Indians were opening the season at the Yards, as my roommate is a huge Indians fan. We made plans. This year, we were going to call off work, and head up to the Yards for Opening Day. We rushed out to the Orioles' Website to get tickets. No joy. Sold Out, it said. We were bummed.
This morning when I had a spare second, I checked to see the Ticketmaster Website for Orioles tickets, and sure enough! Opening Day Seats! I called the box office to see where I could get a grouping of four or so, spread out amongst the season ticket holders. That's when I was told by a rather surly clerk named Rob that I couldn't buy just Opening Day seats. I had to purchase another game's worth of seats as well. I was shocked. Muscling me into buying more seats to get the privilege of watching the opening game? I don't think so. In fact, Rob said, that I was LUCKY because previously the Orioles had said that you couldn't even get seats without a season ticket purchase. Lucky to have to shell out $80 for two tickets to two games? Lucky to pay $6 for a beer? Lucky to pay $5 for a hotdog?
The Orioles do indeed have some of the best fans in baseball, but they are now short one fan. Specifically Me. I will not attend Opening Day this year. Instead, you'll catch me down at the Potomac Cannons' game or the Bowie Baysox game. For the Orioles clearly have proven they don't deserve fans, when all the Orioles want is to separate the fan from his or her hard earned money. Thanks Mr. Angelos, you've ruined my day. The Orioles will continue to draw lackluster crowds if you continue to treat your fanbase to this treatment. With the prospect of DC baseball growing by the minute, and the Orioles' alienation of their fanbase, I have a feeling I know where I'll go to watch baseball, and it certainly won't be at Camden Yards.
It's clear to me that if your season ticket holders weren't already fleeing, I would not have been able to even see available seats on Ticketmaster for your Opening Day game and the series to follow. Your club is in trouble, and you're making nothing but mistakes trying to save your own bottom line. This game is about the Fans, Mr. Angelos, and not about you. This game is about the players, who work like dogs through the season, and not about you. This game can be all that is good in this country, a picture of ethnic diversity, cultural heritage, and triumph of the American Work Ethic, but instead it's become all about money to you. Invest in your fans and you will see the returns, but shirk them, and you will feel it right where it hurts: in your pocketbook.
With love for the game,
Tom Bridge
formerly of Section 82, Row JJ, seats 9 and 10
12:35:10 PM  comment []

People will come, Ray.

"They'll turn up your driveway, not knowing for sure why they're doing it, and arrive at your door, innocent as children, longing for the gentility of the past, for home-canned preserves, ice cream made in a wooden freezer, gingham dresses and black-and-silver stoves with high warming ovens and cast-iron reservoirs.
" 'Of course we don't mind if you look around,' you'll say. 'It's only twenty dollars per person.' And they'll pass over the money without even looking at it -- for it is money they have and peace they lack.
"They'll walk out to the bleacher and sit in shirtsleeves in the perfect evening, or they'll find they have reserves seats somewhere in the grandstand or along one of the baselines -- wherever they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes, in whatever park it was, whatever leaf-shaded town in Maine, or Ohio, or California. They'll watch the game, and it will be as if they have knelt in front of a faith healer, or dipped themselves in magic waters where a saint once rose like a serpent and cast benedictions to the wind like peach petals.
"The memories will be so thick that the outfielders will have to brush them away from their faces: squarish cars parked around a frame schoolhouse, blankets covering the engine blocks; Christmas carols drifting like tinseled birds toward the golden wash of the Northern Lights; women shelling peas in linoleum-floored kitchens, cradling the unshelled pods in brindled aprons, tearing open corn husks and waiting for the thrill of the cool sweet scent; apple-cheeked children and collie dogs; the coffee-and-oil smell of a general store; people gliding over the snow in an open cutter; the dazzling smell of horsehide blankets teasing the senses.
"I don't have to tell you that the one constant through all the years has been basebal. America has been erased like a blackboard, only to be rebuilt and then erased again. But baseball has marked time while America has rolled by like a procession of steamrollers. It is the same game that Moonlight Graham played in 1905. It is a living part of history, like calico dresses, stone crockery, and threshing crews eating at outdoor tables. It continually reminds us of what once was, like an Indian head penny in a handful of new coins.

* * * * *
W.P. Kinsella's Shoeless Joe was turned into a movie in 1989, that second season that we had season tickets with the A's, the year they would sweep the Giants in an earthquake disturbed World Series. 1989 was the year I fell deep in love with baseball and have since been unable to shake it.
I remember sitting and watching that movie with my father, in the Century theatre in Sacramento, and for the first time in my life, understand my father. It was clear he loved the game as much as I did. We bonded in the dark of that theatre, listening to the romanticism that baseball has provided us with, a deep escape from the rest of the world, for when you go to a ballgame, it is as if you have left the Earth entirely. The concerns of your life cease, and become changed into the concerns of the game. Is Lansford on his game tonight? How about Gallego? Will he hit into another double-play to end the inning? Is Bob Welch hanging his curve again? Will Mac send another ball into the left field bleachers? Did you hear about Canseco? No longer does it matter if you've done your homework, or if school is going well. It only matters that you've got the right pitchcount.
And that is the zen I seek.
As the three of us walk across the vast emerald lake that is the outfield, I think of all the things I'll want to talk to the catcher about. I'll guide the conversations, like taking a car around a long, gentle curve in the road, and we'll hardly realize that we're talking of love, and family, and life, and beauty and friendship, and sharing. . .

In memory of Percival H. Bridge, my grandfather.
12:18:48 AM  comment []