Three hours evaporate too quickly in baseball, says me. If time inexplicably drags for you, consider mysteries of the game.
Umpire Dirt Devil: In a daily ritual, umpires or designees use mud harvested from a secret New Jersey bog to slap down the polished look of new baseballs, presumably helping pitchers’ grip. This isn’t illegal scuffing designed to baffle hitters, which pitchers and catchers execute surreptitiously. How do muddy middlemen eat up time, spritzing dozens of balls? Do they rub to the Ipod churn of Metallica (maybe Muddy Waters)? Scope out the Home Run Derby on ESPN Classic? For kicks, do they sneak in a still-polished orb to see if anyone notices?
Ground Rules or Grub Guide: What’s up with the pre-game huddle at home between umpires and managers, presumably to discuss individual ballpark oddities? What’s really discussed – stir fry and brew joints? How many times during a four-game series can you jawbone over what happens if a ball gets hung up in Wrigley Field ivy or underneath a tarp? It sure couldn’t have prepared for Yankees outfielder Dave Winfield being arrested in Toronto in 1983 when he accidentally killed a wayfaring seagull with a warmup throw.
Tarp Dancers: How often do groundskeepers practice the Tchaikovsky ballet of rolling out the tarp? Hire a Sikorsky chopper to create a headwind in preseason to prep for a summer thunderstorm?
Janitors in a Drum: The Oakland Coliseum innards stink like “Indiana Jones” catacombs. Snakes? You bet maintenance guys don’t venture far without those base-clearing clubhouse potty excavators. What ghoulish tales handymen could tell, if only the Centers for Disease Control dare ask?
Jocks-of-All-Trades: Sometimes a line drive will snap a glove’s webbing. A slide will tear a pants leg. A jock strap will go missing. A Nutshellz (aka family jewels’ shield) will crack. A collision will knock out a tooth or contact lens. Microphone batteries will fail for a slurpy-voiced anthem singer. Who are the sometimes game savers, lurking in the stadium bowels? Their packs of tricks including scissors, tongue depressors, ear irrigators, cold packs, duct tape, saline solution, location of emergency shutoff valve for sprinklers and an Uber hotline for the gold-toothed reliever whose car battery expired.
Mr. Nice Guy: What are the rules (does slipping cash help?) on who is bequeathed a foul retrieved by the ball boy? Would love to see the liability policy preventing pitching the keepsakes to cheaper seats.
Evictor-in-Chief: A friend got mouthy with Jose Canseco back when he was half of the steroid-challenged Bash Brothers. He wanted the critic tossed. The Oakland security shirts ultimately ejected the wrong jouster. How does security decide when you’ve crossed the line? And what are their “judicial” options?
Sultan of Sales: There are other winners and losers in games. Hauling cases of soda when it’s 31 degrees at Milwaukee, when you need pliers to crack open peanuts? Selling beer in a section dominated by elementary kids? Some kind of pit boss makes assignments for what vendor hawks the top sellers and who waves cotton candy in the rain. What’s the racket? And, painful reality, who decides the geographic borders so that I’m always outside bellowing distance of the churro dealer?
Odor Eaters: Lastly, for the hourly staff who churn volcanoes of garlic fries – What’s the trick? High pressure hoses filled with Febreze? -- so they can shed their Eureka! aroma and sleep regularly with the family.
I’ll snap out of such puzzling with opening day in April. Rebirth arrives when the first, fast, mud-speckled sphere challenges a hand-sanded, finely grained chisel of ash whipped by Buyanesque wrists soon to be tailored for All-Star sleeves.
(Also published as an op-ed in the March 4, 2017 edition of The Fresno Bee.)
John G. Taylor, a former Fresno Bee reporter and editor, is owner/operator of The JT Communications Company LLC. Write to him at jtcommunicates@comcast.net.