After the four and a half hour drive across the barren desert, we (my 17-year-old daughter, her friend, and myself) finally pulled into the eastern Tempe Diablo Stadium parking lot. It was 10:30, St. Patrick’s Day, and my first game of 2014. Since the gates to get into the stadium weren’t open yet, we walked across the western parking lot, zigzagged around the kids playing catch while they were waiting, and went to the practice fields.
There were over a hundred players wearing the gray pants that identified them as minor leaguers and the solid red tops with the capital A logo proudly on the left side of their chests. On one field a coach was hitting fungoes to outfielders. On another, a group of catchers were taking turns pouncing on a bunted ball and firing the captured orb to first base. On yet another, a line of pitchers was throwing a phantom ball to home plate where a real ball was thrown on the ground in the vicinity of the pitcher’s mound. “Second base” the coach shouted, and the pitcher’s throw then went to where it was instructed to go.
After we soaked some of this in, it was time to head back to the stadium. In the grass beside the walkway, a left-handed, blonde-bearded pitcher was zipping fastballs into a squatting catcher’s mitt. A trio of players were walking ahead of us on their way to the black-tarped batting cages, bats in hand, cleats scratching on the ground.
A throng had gathered at the top steps of the front of Diablo Stadium, most of whom were wearing green to celebrate the holiday, half of whom were wearing San Francisco Giants gear. The fans were obviously happy to be there and were in an approachable and talkative mood. A little leaguer in a Trumbo jersey was telling me about how he was hoping to get a Josh Hamilton autograph. A man in a tan Giants cap explained to me how he expected Brandon Belt to be much more productive on offense this year. A goateed man in a red Angels t-shirt revealed to me that at 1:00, at the same time the A-squad was playing the Giants in the main stadium, the minor leaguers would be playing two games on the practice fields.
Once our bags were checked and we made it past the turnstiles, we found our way to our seats, right next to Kole Calhoun‘s spot in right field. Beer vendors in sparkly-green leprechaun get-ups were hawking their wares, and I shared my David’s sunflower seeds with my two companions. “These are good!” my daughter said in shock. She’s not much on baseball food. She doesn’t even have the sense to put mustard on her hot dogs.
Batting practice was over, and it was a while still until the start of the game. Dino Ebel was in right field pitching balls over-hand to his son who looks to be around six years old, and he never misses, hitting balls over Dino’s head into the wall fifteen yards behind him. I went to the end of the right field bleachers and hung out with some Giants fans who were waiting for the team bus to arrive. They showed no trace of any bitterness over having lost to the Angels in 2002. Winning two of the last four World Series will do that.
The day’s Giants starting pitcher Tim Lincecum arrived ahead of the bus. He wore a cap with a large “W” that I didn’t recognize, Giants basketball shorts, and jester-like leggings. He didn’t even turn to look at the adoring fans yelling his name. The team bus pulled up shortly after, and to get to the playing field, the team had to walk across the player parking lot which was dotted with a sparkling white Range Rover, a maroon Maserati, and a red Audi r8 with gold wheels.
The small flock of fans called out to Bruce Bochy, and he walked over to them to sign a few autographs. “God bless you young man!” a woman in her fifties called out to him.
On my way back to my seat, I spotted an older gentleman wearing a Bobby Knoop jersey, so I introduced myself and got him to tell me stories of the early Angel days of balletic Knoop/Fregosi double plays and majestic Steve Bilko home runs.
The game started and Hector Santiago had some trouble in the first inning, giving up a couple of runs. He made some corrections and goose egged the Giants for the next couple of innings. I explain the proceedings to my daughter. She isn’t a sports fan at all — she just came along to keep her old man company. She is aware of only three Angels: Albert Pujols, Mike Trout, and my favorite player, Jered Weaver, so I have to give her commentary so she can make sense of what she’s seeing.
After a few innings, we left the stadium to catch the middle of the minor league games in progress at the lower fields. The first game we encountered was the Triple-A game where the Angels minor leaguers were playing the Oakland A’s minor leaguers. There were only a handful of fans watching the game, presumably friends and relatives of the players. It’s like an empty Little League game, with nothing between you and the players on the field but a chain link fence. When I walked up to the first base dugout, the Angels were on the field. None other than CJ Cron, one of the Angels’ top prospects, was guarding the runner at first base. “Runner,” we could hear Cron yell out to his teammates as the Athletic took off to steal second base. Luis “Lucho” Jimenez was playing second. He fielded the throw from the catcher and applied the tag. “Out,” yelled the umpire as he punched the air.
The next game we came to was the Double-A game, and the Angels were up to bat when we walked upon the scene. Eric Stamets, widely considered the Angels’ best defensive prospect, was on first base, and he too took off to steal second. He dove in head first just ahead of the throw. “Mike Scioscia needs to have the regular Angels do more of this, stealing bases,” I explain to my daughter and her friend.
We then made it back to the stadium, and the Angels had the lead. There was an entire row of empty seats down low, directly behind home plate, so not wanting them to go to waste, we snagged three of the seats. By the start of the ninth inning, the Angels were up by two, but the Giants started hitting line drive after line drive. You could tell they were solid hits by the distinctive sound they made off the bat. The Giants fans smelled blood, and began chanting to will their team on to victory. The entire third base half of the grandstand seemed to be a sea of Giants rooters. After another ball sang off the bat of a Giant hitter and the San Franciscoans took a one run lead, the stadium erupted with joy. My daughter didn’t understand how the Giants fans were able to make this all sound like a Giants home game instead of an Angels one. As the cheers started to drop off from their loudest point, a despairing Angels fan hollered out “C’mon Scioscia, change pitchers already!”
The Angels skipper made the move, and the new pitcher was able to put out the fire, but the Halos were down by one, and instead of the game being over, I explained to my flesh and blood, the Angels get one last chance.
Somehow, there was this physical field of emotional tension that filled the horseshoe magnet-shaped space we fans all occupied around the play on the field. Up for the Angels was Shawn O’Malley. The umpire called a strike, and a burst of cheers came from the Giants fans. A ball was called next, and we Angels fans retaliated with a cheer of our own. My daughter turned to me and said, “This is kind of exciting.” O’Malley hit one up the middle out of reach of the Giant second baseman, and Kole Calhoun was up to bat.
“Calhoun has a lot of power,” I told my daughter. “He hits a lot of home runs. If he hits one here, the game will be over — Angels win.” The gingered outfielder/first baseman dug himself into the left-handed batter’s box and held his pale bat high in the air. Ball one. Grant Green was on the on deck circle.
The next pitch was another ball.
Calhoun reset and was ready to spring. “There’s a lot of power in that bat, Maddie,” I said as we watched intently. The third pitch of the at bat was also a ball. “The pitcher knows Calhoun is a home run hitter, and he’s afraid to throw him a strike,” I explained.
Not wanting to walk Calhoun, the Giant pitcher chose instead to throw Calhoun a strike, and Kole finally got to swing, and by what seems like a miracle of physics, he was able to time the barrel of his bat to pass by the front of home plate at exactly the same time that the ball entered that same space, and Newton’s second law of motion was beautifully put on display as the struck ball soared high above everyone’s heads, headed to right field and out of the park for a game-winning home run.
I had to poke my daughter in the arm to grab her attention away from the roar of the crowd. “I told you he’d do it. Did I call it, or what!” In my jubilation, sitting next to my daughter in this rollicking stadium, I knew this game was not going to transform her into a baseball fan, but this was a day, a moment, that we’ll always have to look back on.