The Obligatory Hope

There are few things in the world that affect me mentally like professional sports. Now, I don’t want you to think that I’m some sort of jock type that cares only about beating the other guy to a pulp. If you know me, you know that I’m far from a jock. And if you know of my favorite teams, you know that beating anything to a pulp is far from what they are capable.

No, I love my sports teams because they give me an outlet for my emotion. I love my sports teams because, as Humphrey Bogart once said, a hot dog at the ball park is better than a steak at the Ritz. I love my sports teams because they let me forget about the world and lose myself in a vast expanse of competition, if only for three hours.

Folks, baseball season is here. I was never a serious baseball fan until a few years ago. But now, in spite of my love for the worst team in the league, it is here. And, at the beginning of a season, one is incapable of feeling anything but extreme optimism.

So, this is it: this is my post of extreme optimism. I think we will shock the world this year. I think we will leave the mouths of the Fenway faithful agape. I think we will blow away the Bronx Bombers. I say it right here and now. Our pitching will make nothing short of a monumental turnaround and come October, we will still be playing.

Because, after all, you have to have hope, right?

I only write these absurd thoughts because during this upcoming year, when we’re approaching 90 losses, I’d like to be able to look back on this post and remember why I come back. I want to remember that in spite of their lack of talent, the Rays have a whole lot of heart.

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The Rays should retire the number 10

A few days ago, I went to a Devil Rays game with Angus. We played the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim from California within the United States but not Necessarily From the Actual City Proper of Los Angeles. At least, I think that’s what we’re calling them nowadays. They’re changing it every other day.

Anyhow, while at the Trop, I picked up and filled out an application for the Devil Rays Fan Hall of Fame. Apparently, they’re picking some select fans to enshrine for all of antiquity in plaque form at some permanent display at Tropicana Field. I must say, I am overqualified – I’m a small part of the team’s young and troubled history, after all – but the application had a word limit of 25 words. What this team has meant to me since 1998 cannot be fit into the cramped space intended for do few words; hence, this is my explanation of why I am an obvious candidate for the Rays’ Fan Hall of Fame:

Where to begin? Well, I was there since the very beginning, March 31, 1998, when we lost to the Tigers. But what’s so special about that? I mean, 45,368 other people were there. What’s so special is the fact that despite the loss that may have been a precursor of the painful decade to come, I continued to watch the Rays. I was 10 years old at the time, and to have a baseball team to call my own after not caring about the sport for the first stages of my childhood for lack of a home team was a special privilege. Wade Boggs, Fred McGriff, Larry Rothschild, I remember them all. Heck, I even remember sitting in the stands and wondering what nationality Rolando Arrojo could possibly be. I was young and quizzical, what can I say? To this day, I still have all of my inaugural season souvenirs: The three-baseball set I got exclusively with my breakfast meals at McDonald’s (signed by such crowd favorites as Vince Namoli, no doubt), the inaugural season gift calendar I picked up before 1999, and, of course, the tacky purple seat cushion given away at game number one:

And that was 1998. In 1999, we were promised a Hit Show! I can still sing you the whole promotional song, but I will spare you the pain of reading about all the promises that never panned out. Vinny Castilla, Jose Canseco, and Greg Vaughn may not have delivered that year, but it was especially memorable for yours truly. During a game, the roving cameramen in the stadium searched out the fattest and cheekiest kid in the vicinity. Of course, back then I was a portly young lad. Hence, they videotaped me. This footage, incidentally, was used in every single Rays commercial that year. I was a celebrity, so to speak, and soon people would recognize me in public. This footage was also used in a Rays music video by Sequel, though I have never seen it except for at the Trop that year and on the tape the PR department sent me. If you’re from the area and you need something to jog your memory, give this screencap a look:

Ah, those were good days. They got better, too. At another game with none other than Angus, I imagine their guest vocalist got stuck in traffic, which caused the cutest little girl from upstairs came down and asked me sing for the 7th inning stretch. Now, I had no prior vocal training, but I figured that it would be fun enough, so I agreed. I blew them away, too:

But that wasn’t it. They weren’t content with my tear jerking performance of “Take me Out to the Ballgame,” so they asked me to do a little jig to the tune of “Love Shack.” Now, as a fat little Irish boy, I’m well-accustomed to doing little jigs, but in front of 15,000 people? I was mildly nervous, but a few pelvic thrusts later, I was right at home; I was definitely a crowd favorite.

I was a Rays’ favorite, too. Because a few days later, I got a phone call from the guy who was in charge of Rays Vision at the time, asking me to star in a between-inning video segment where I would ask players pop culture questions (you know, silly things like their favorite movies, and so on and so forth). They had me do a lot of stuff: I dressed up (and impersonated!) Dick Vitale, who goes to many games and sits just to the left of the third base dugout; I impersonated a flying Superman who was curious about the players’ favorite bands; I even sported a beard that, apparently, made me look like a Rabbi. Oddly enough, only my Jewish friend Doug recalls that last one. Either way, I was big, and it was all because of me being lovable like this:

After the 1999 season, the Rays’ interests in me tapered off, probably because the players were in no mood to talk and because I was quickly growing out of my cute stages. It’s like when Beaver hit puberty and just became pathetic, asking Wally about things he should already know.

Anyway, I still followed the team. I remember Wade Boggs’ 3000th hit, a beautiful homer into right field. To this day, the seat where it hit is painted yellow, which contrasts the plastic blue of the rest of the stadium very well. I remember the crack of Tony Saunders’ arm. I remember the players that have come. More so, I remember the players that have gone.

Roberto Hernandez. Dave Martinez. Jesus Colome. These are only a few.

I remember seeing Hal McRae come in during the middle of a season, not knowing the atrocities he’d inherited. I’ve seen manager after manager. And, interestingly enough, I am content with the team’s management as it is now.

I’ve also co-founded the largest Devil Rays group on Facebook. It’s called Scotty Kaz Owns You. And he does.

With the sale of the team to new owners, the inception of Joe Maddon, the signing of Carl Crawford and Rocco Baldelli to long-term contracts, and with the new outlook on baseball that the new management brings, I’ve begun to become more entwined in this world of Tampa Bay Baseball. I’ve admired (perhaps a little too much) Travis Lee, fist baseman extraordinaire since the beginning of the season. I now sit in the beach, where I can be as loud as I want for the team at a low price. I live with a real, live Ray Team member. Baseball is as big in the Peterson household as it ever has been, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I will leave you with a picture from my latest journey to the Beach in the Trop, with my Ray Team sister Stefanie and two Russian girls to whom I tried to teach baseball (I was unsuccessful.):

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Let's go, Blue Jays

The other night, I went to enjoy a game of Single A Minor League baseball in Clearwater between the Dunedin Blue Jays and the hometown Threshers. Now, because of my rich and lucrative history with the Dunedin ball club, I sported my $18.00 Dunedin Jays cap and my glove, on the off chance that I might be able to snag an errant ball. No such luck.

But as I watched the game, I did all of the standard baseball spectator-type things: I would argue balls and strikes (a pastime that got the manager of Clearwater ejected for his billionth game this season), I would congratulate players on having a “good eye” when it came to watching balls sail by outside of the strike zone, I would cheer for my team.

However, the man sitting four rows up in the section adjacent to me did not appreciate that. I would say something innocent and innocuous and he would spout back words of annoyance. And I thought it was only because I was rooting for the Blue Jays, until a man sitting in the section on the other side of mine began expressing his love for the Threshers. At this point, my little angry friend became so irked that he bellowed a hearty “Shut up!” that was probably audible throughout the stadium. Remember: it’s a single A team. Sounds travel quickly throughout a small stadium, especially when the home team can’t ever win a game.

But I digress. Has this man ever been to a baseball game? Does he not realize that fan interaction, especially at the lower levels of the sport, plays an integral role in the mental development of the players? If we can’t prepare these boys today for the screaming and obnoxious fans of tomorrow’s major league level, what service have we done? We haven’t done anything.

So, take it from me, Mr. Zippy McShutup: maybe golf is a better spectator sport for you.

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I'm President of the Fan Club

If you’ve been around me for the past couple of months, you already know this. But if you’ve been living under a rock and you aren’t aware of the simple fact that Travis Lee is the best baseball player to ever play the game, this is your heads up.

Lee’s fielding percentage is .997, which is the highest active percentage in the league among first basemen. He is as tall as the Empire State Building; he is as mighty as a lion; he is as nimble as a kitten; he is as powerful as a locomotive.

Notice that locomotives do not have opposable thumbs. Hence, they cannot hold baseball bats. And because they cannot hold baseball bats, their batting averages are not very high.

But did Jesus ever rub pine tar on a Louisville Slugger? Did Mohammed have a good batting average? Could Moses crank a ball over the centerfield wall? Collective answer? No. Collective moral? You can go ahead and disregard Travis Lee’s batting average. Pay attention to the obvious: he is easily the greatest first baseman in the league and he is possibly the greatest human being to walk the earth in 2000 years.

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Well, they don't offer Baseball 101

Like most of the rest of my graduating class, I got accepted into the University of Florida. So, I had to get a bunch of scholarship things taken care of yesterday as to facilitate my ability to attend.

I had to call the office of Chuck Murphy (president of the Florida State Baseball League) yesterday to see what I needed to do to get my scholarship check from the mascot gig this summer, and I got the information from his secretary.

I said goodbye, but this lady would just not stop talking. I don’t know if she felt that she had to make conversation with me to be nice or what, but this lady talked to me about everything there is to be talked about. Baseball, college, my career path, everything.

And I think that she was genuinely offended when I told her that my major is probably going to be political science.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with baseball!”

Listen lady: I’m a 5’6″, 140 pound IB student with absolutely no physical prowess. Plus, I’m a football man. And heck, there’s no money in baseball anyway.

About 10 minutes later, I was finally able to coerce her into hanging up the phone, but not until after I had spilled my life story to this complete stranger.

The holidays do some crazy things to people.

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Play ball!

Hey, dude. Seriously, what’s your problem?

You know I’m talking to you, Fellow who Starts Applauding and Yelling before the National Anthem is Over. Honestly, does that last “and the home of the brave” really seem that insignificant to you?

Perhaps the whole situation is proof of the lack of American fortitude. People are expected to stop talking about how horrendous the Yankees’ record is while chugging down their Budweisers for _a whole song?_ Impossible. There’s always that one guy who starts having boisterous conniptions after “O’er the la-aand of the free,” and then, like within a giant herd of sheep the identical actions spread throughout a ballpark like plight through a corn field. Before you know it, the performer of the National Anthem is drowned out by the spectators of the national past time and the patriotic flare of the events before a game is snuffed out by the drunken ravings of a bunch of overweight and balding men.

Perhaps we Americans need to work on our collective stamina.

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