Triple Play

After a two-and-a-half-hour drive, it's only fifty minutes by air from Richmond International Airport to LaGuardia and New York City, a place which, whether viewed from 10,000 feet or ground level, resembles Lynchburg, Virginia (my point of origination), about as much my lamentable and long-defunct golf swing resembles Tiger Woods's.

A bizarre but appropriate analogy, since golf was initially what this three-day junket was all about -- spectator golf, that is, as devoted readers of this blog will recall that I wisely abandoned the sport for the fifth and last time about twelve years ago. (The Last Nine Holes, August 27, 2007)

When I inquired of my friend, Chandler A., if he was planning to attend the local debut of Nickelodeon icon, Sponge Bob Square Pants, at the Schewel store on Timberlake Road on Saturday, June 20th -- since his company owned the license to manufacture furniture-related products bearing the image of the wildly popular cartoon character, including the child's recliners we sell in our stores -- a promotion which, by the way, drew 1200 frenzied fans -- he responded with a resounding, "Heck no, Marc. I'm going to the U.S. Open with a couple of buddies. And, for a good customer like you, we just might be able to scrounge up another ticket (or two, when I mentioned that I had a son living in New York)."

Myopic (in more ways than one) and provincial, I had shunned the Big Apple for too long -- even after my older son, David, moved there upon graduating from college and established a career for himself as a free-lance television film editor. Finally, five years ago, my wife persuaded me to accompany her and some friends to the U.S. Tennis Open, awakening me (along with a reading of Robert Caro's classic biography of Robert Moses: "The Power Broker") to the scintillating and diverse attractions of the city like no other: skyscrapers, stores, restaurants, outdoor cafes, delis, museums, parks, riverfronts, pedestrian congestion, subway maneuvers, roller-coaster taxicab rides, charming urban neighborhoods, myriad entertainment options, the curious conjunction of extreme poverty and great wealth, and, everywhere I turned, so many people, of every size, shape, demeanor, color, ethnicity, and sexual orientation, dressed up in designer tee's and jeans or down in cheaper iterations of the same attire, or in basic black, glued to their cell phones and blackberries, in the midst of which one never feels out of place, unless he's wearing the traditional button-down collar and blue blazer of a dyed-in-the-wool Southern gentleman.

Friday afternoon, from a window seat aboard my Canadair Regional Jet, I enjoy a panoramic view of the City's environs, as the plane soars across Manhattan's vertical sprawl, a veritable legoland that is as awe-inspiring in miniature as it is full-blown, and heads up the East River and out Long Island Sound -- where the elegant homes of the suburban rich stretch below amidst lush green foliage bordered by small inlets and dotted with shapely swimming pools -- before circling back over scruffy, middle-class Queens to land and taxi past the familiar letters stuck like an afterthought on a grassy knoll: "Welcome to New York City."

My son is dutifully waiting at curbside -- in the venerable 2000 silver Taurus I sold him (for a pittance) five years ago when it came off a Schewel lease -- to transport me to the clean, moderately-priced ($135 a night) hotel, the Chelsea Savoy, located about seven blocks from his residence -- thus sparing me the arduous task of navigating the intricate bus-subway connections between LaGuardia and Manhattan, or, even worse, the thrill of a New York City taxicab ride, courtesy of a driver of indeterminate nationality talking incessantly on his cellphone in an indecipherable language, inattentive to the flow of surrounding traffic.

David lives in a $400,000 500-square-foot co-op in the West Village. His building, artistically-named "The Vermeer," is typical New York, spanning almost half of Seventh Avenue, rising twenty stories to a rooftop patio ideal for small summertime parties or romantic tete-a-tetes, and guarded by a hefty doorman, who eyes every non-resident suspiciously upon his entrance and then dials upstairs to confirm that he is indeed no uninvited interloper.

The ground floor of this institution is occupied by the Westside Market, 30,000 square feet of narrow, twisting aisles stocked floor to the ceiling with every variety of canned, fresh, frozen, or packaged food imaginable, through which David and I wend our way to a deli bar at the rear of the store -- gliding past a hot buffet of enticing prepared foods -- where I order the best $6.00 tuna sandwhich I have had since my last visit.

Our evening activity takes us by subway -- where I sit beside a young woman engrossed in the newest Hebrew best-seller -- to a New York landmark, but a fresh discovery for me, the Lincoln Center: a six-building three-city-block complex housing, among others, the Juilliard School, the Lincoln Center for Performing Arts, the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet, and the New York Philharmonic -- a bona fide lifetime of culture for those of us from the hinterlands.

We arrive in the neighborhood early enough for dinner, and wander into a bustling Tex-Mex cafe called "Harry's Burritos," but ignore the signature dish and order a pair of uninspiring enchiladas. After this unsavory interlude, we stroll into Central Park and take a quick tour through the famous "Tavern on the Green," where in the open courtyard we stumble upon an all-black private party and a handful of energetic and overweight Baby Boomers "Doing the Hustle," before moving on to a small, shaded grandstand to watch a fiercely competitive game of coed corporate softball.

A few minutes before 8:00 PM, we rouse ourselves from the Park and make our way to our final destination, the Lincoln Center Theater at the Vivian Beaumont, to immerse ourselves in the three-hour revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's "South Pacific."

While I am hardly a music aficionado nor a theater buff, a taste of Broadway a few years ago -- namely, "The Producers" -- ensnared me. Once exposed, who can not but delight in the stunning ambiance of those glorious, historic playhouses (of which the Vivian Beaumont is not one), the elaborate stagecraft, the interactive orchestra, the resonant voices, the perfected choreography, the vivid costumes, the perpetual energy, and the singular fact that he is witness to the finest actors, singers, dancers, and musicians in the world?

Since that epiphany, I have seen in recent years "Wicked," "The Putnam County Spelling Bee," "Jersey Boys," The Lion King," "Mama Mia," and "Rent." "Wicked" disappointed me; banished to the balcony, I could hardly hear the dialogue and the song lyrics. And my wife and I walked out of "Rent" at intermission because the plot was impenetrable and the songs forgettable. But, as for the rest, each was a marvel.

Having been stung by "Wicked," I now always try to purchase orchestra level seats close to the stage, and so, at 7:58 PM, David and I find ourselves two rows from the front but in the far right corner, a placement at first somewhat worrisome, until the thrust stage rolls back to reveal the thirty-piece orchestra, and we realize the style of the performance is virtually "theater in the round," assuring that we are never too from the action or the actors' nuanced facial expressions.

Critics have been unanimously effusive in their praise of this show, and I couldn't agree more with such encomiums as:

"It's been almost six decades since the opening of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic and its first Broadway revival, but the Lincoln Center Theater production makes the waiting -- to echo the James Michener source excerpt splashed across the front scrim: 'The waiting, the waiting, the timeless, repetitive waiting' -- worthwhile. From the seductive swell of a full orchestra playing the glorious five-minute overture to the poignant final tableau of love and reconciliation, this is ravishing theater." (David Rooney, Variety, April 3, 2008)

"I know we're not supposed to find perfection in this imperfect world, but I'm darned if I can find one serious flaw in this production." (Ben Brantley, New York Times, April 4, 2008)

"Simply wonderful. Bartlett Sher's masterly reinvention of Rodgers and Hammerstein's South Pacific opened at the Vivian Beaumont last night with enough wattage to keep Lincoln Center alight for years." (Clive Barnes, Newsday, April 4, 2008)

"In this new production, director Bartlett Sher and a gifted, great-looking cast fully engage both the challenges faced by the characters and the romantic sweep of Rodgers and Hammerstein's ravishing score." (Elysa Gardner, USA Today, April 3, 2008)

Romance, intrigue, humor, and an unexpected (to those like me unfamiliar with the story) outbreak of a dated but universal racial prejudice are interwoven into a plotline that flows effortlessly from the opening sequence, in which the love affair between the sober middle-aged plantation owner Emile de Becque and the cheerful Little Rock naval nurse, Nellie Forbush, germinates and blossoms in the South Pacific heat during World War II, only to wilt when Nellie, true to her "insular Arkansas upbringing," realizes that Emile's two children are the offspring of his former marriage to a Polynesian woman.

Similarly, "Philadelphia's Princeton-educated Joseph Cable falls for Bali Ha'i island girl Liat but despairs of introducing her to life back home. The four conflicted lovers play out their drama while Liat's money-hungry mother Bloody Mary and enlisted man Luther Billis try to grease various wheels and while the war in the Pacific intensifies, eventually involving de Becque and Cable in a dangerous mission as the women wait." (David Finkle, Theatermania, April 4, 2008)

But, as one amateur reviewer wrote, "You don't go to 'South Pacific' for the story, or for the set [which boasts, at times, 'a breathtaking Pacific panorama, a huge spinning flatbed truck, a flashy war room, and World War II fighter plane' (Joe Dziemaniowicz, Daily News, April 4, 2008)]. You go for the songs, the wonderful, joyful, romantic songs" -- songs which captivated audiences and non-theater-goers sixty years ago and shot up the record charts, songs which suddenly prick some ancient musical memory deeply repressed in the consciousness of this most obtuse of auditors. Yes, even I remember (now) "Some Enchanted Evening," "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair," Bloody Mary," "There is Nothing Like a Dame" -- perhaps because my parents played them on a turntable fifty years ago.

These songs meld seamlessly into the storyline as integral components and natural developments; "presented like musical conversation, they sound fresh and exciting," (Joe Dziemaniowicz, Daily News, April 4, 2008) and feel "as natural as breathing." (Ben Brantley, New York Times, April 4, 2008)

When Brazilian Opera baritone Paulo Szot, as Emile, erupts with "Some enchanted evening, You may see a stranger, You may see a stranger, Across the crowded room," the grandeur is palpable, sending chills up the spine. And yet, when he calmly delivers the peroration, "Once you have found her, never let her go," the result is "a measured and honest consideration of love." (Ben Brantley, New York Times, April 4,2008)

Soprano Laura Osnes substitutes admirably for Kelli O'Hara, the revival's original Nellie, bringing to the Mary Martin role an "all-American eagerness" shaded by "a troubled, apprehensive guardedness." (Ben Brantley, New York Times, April 4, 2008) When she shampoos that man right outa her hair with "high spirits" and "plenty of sass," we are close enough to see the pain wrought by conflicted emotions and, later, the possible loss of her beloved Emile.

The Hawaiian actress, Loretta Ables Sayre, makes her New York debut as the avaricious Polynesian peddler, Bloody Mary, and is a show stealer. Short, pudgy, quick-stepping across the stage in her truncated stride, she renders "Bali Ha'i" and "Happy Talk" as "systematic acts of seduction" (Ben Brantley, New York Times, April 4, 2008), gazing steadily into the eyes of Lieutenant Cable, beckoning him, like the mysterious island, to "Come away, Come away, Come to me, Because, any night, any day, Bali Ha'i, it may call you," or tempting him with "You've got to have a dream. If you don't have a dream, How you gonna have a dream come true?"

Sixty years later, one moral of the tale still rings true, as Lieutenant Cable dissects in song the roots of intolerance: "You've got to be taught to hate and fear . . . You've got to be taught to be afraid, Of people whose eyes are oddly made, And people whose skin is a different shade. You've got to be carefully taught."

Dare I say . . . it was "some enchanting evening?"

Ah, but only a prelude to the next big event of this busy weekend -- Saturday, Day Three of the U.S. Open at the Bethpage Black Golf Course, Farmingdale, New York. Or is it Day Two, since a torrential downpour has washed away Day One, Thursday, after only three hours play, not only disrupting the players and the broadcast schedule, but also inciting the wrath of 50,000 ticket holders, who were left without recourse or refund, until the USGA, "threatened by the state Attorney General and skewered by NYC tabloids and talk radio stations, reversed course, and offered them entry on Monday, or a 50% refund had play concluded Sunday." (Damon Mack, Sports Illustrated, June 29, 2009)

Whatever day it is, my son and I bravely board the Long Island Railroad at 8:00 AM for a one-hour train ride to Farmingdale and a short ten-minute bus transfer to the golf course -- except for the one hour it takes us to check David's banned cellphone (about which he has been forewarned) and stand like cattle led to slaughter in a slowly-moving-quadruple-switchback line waiting to board said bus. And with gray skies glowering overhead, we still don't know if we will see any golf.

Some would question why a confirmed non-golfer (two, actually, counting David) would want to spectate a golf tournament -- to which I would reply, first, that just because I can't hit the ball doesn't mean I don't stand in awe and admiration of those who can, and, secondly, how many millions attend football, baseball, and basketball games who have gracefully hung up their cleats and tennis shoes forever?

This was my third professional golf tournament, having stood in the vicinity of the eighteenth green at Pinehurst in 1999 and heard the shouts trumpeting Payne Stewart's triumphant final putt, and having miraculously secured a position in a treeline barely twenty feet from where Tiger Woods hit a ball into a pond fronting the perilous fifteenth hole on the first day of the Masters in 2007.

Unless one is content to plant oneself comfortably in a grandstand overlooking a green and an adjacent tee box, and scrutinize successive threesomes or twosomes as they approach, putt, and drive, watching a golf tournament can be a strenuous exercise. At Pinehurst in 1999, my younger son Matthew and I were fortunate to fall in behind a twosome of Jon Daly and some other long-forgotten player; following them for almost eighteen holes replicated the experience of playing ourselves and facilitated us walking the entire course.

At the Masters two years ago, my mother and I made the mistake of trying to chase down some of the top players, which resulted in long and tiring hikes back and forth between various holes, fighting the monstrous crowds, seeing fewer golf shots, and losing entirely the feel of famous Augusta National.

Thus, when David and I finally locate the first hole -- it isn't easy -- we latch onto an international journeyman threesome teeing off at 10:30: Michael Campbell of New Zealand, best known for winning the 2005 U.S. Open, his only PGA Tour victory; Rod Pampling of Australia, winner of two tour events (and $11,625,000) in his ten-year PGA career; and Floridian Boo Weekley, also a two-time winner, but a crowd favorite, renowned for such antics as riding his driver cowboy-style down the first fairway at the 2008 Ryder Cup, running to a lake and starting to fish during a rain delay in a tournament on the Nationwide Tour, and telling talk-show host Jim Rome in 2007 that the wind on holes 16, 17, and 18 at Harbourtown was so fierce "it made your butthole pucker up."

Apparently, Boo's always a good interview. "It was so wet," at Bethpage, he said to a reporter, "I saw frogs climbing up the clubhouse walls trying to get out." (Damon Mack, Sports Illustrated, June 29, 2009)

I suspect also that a good deal of this man's popularity can be attributed to his fans' ability to cheer for him by booing.

What we see that day that we won't see on television (no matter how often the announcers repeat it) is how far and how straight these guys hit the ball -- almost every time -- and how difficult this course really is (or appears to be to one who hasn't seen very many): fairways that don't start until 175 yards from the tee box, and when they do, have been narrowed twenty-five yards by a freshly-grown first cut rough; deep wiry grass and underbrush when the player misses that first cut; sand traps lining the fairways and surrounding almost every green; elevated greens and doglegs producing a multitude of blind shots; small greens with imposing pin placements; 500-yard par 4's and one 600-yard hole.

We follow Boo and his partners for five or six holes, accompanied by a chorus of boos, which reaches a crescendo when the object of their affection birdies the par 5 fourth. In the gray overcast, we find it hard to follow the flight of the ball. We post ourselves 300 yards from the tee box, listen for the crack of the driver, gaze skyward in anxious expectation and repeated frustration, and then hear a heavy thump, signaling that the ball has landed somewhere nearby. From there, we traipse ahead to the green.

Weeks of rain -- which continues today in intermittent showers -- and three days of heavy pedestrian traffic have transformed the dirt paths around the course into unavoidable, soggy pools of black slime. Fortunately, I chose to wear tennis shoes, which I can clean in the bathtub of my hotel room, and short pants; while my socks end up so caked with mud that one washing doesn't suffice, at least my trouser legs are spared.

Not only is Bethpage Black long -- 7426 yards -- it's strung out like a caterpillar. With the tenth tee at the far end, the course loops back only once, making it difficult for spectators to cross from hole to hole, which, against my better judgment, David insists we do around midday, in order to see Tiger Woods.

Tiger's threesome -- the best of the day, as it includes Masters champion Angel Cabrera and British Open titleholder Padraig Harrington -- started from the tenth tee about the same time we arrived at the golf course, so he is playing the thirteenth hole when we decide to track him down. Besides the ubiquitous mud and the interminable distances, there is, of course, the problem of the crowd, since one-half of our 50,000 companions have the same idea as we do. We finally manage to perch ourselves atop a small mound which gives us a sliver of a view of the thirteenth green, a vantage point from which we are able to see Tiger sink a ten-foot putt for a birdie -- only the second birdie we witness all day.

I finally convince David that further pursuit of Tiger is a waste of time and energy, and, after a couple of $10.00 sandwiches and $4.00 drinks, we go out in search of an unencumbered threesome to follow the rest of the afternoon.

A reward of attaching oneself to one group for a number of holes is that -- no matter how obscure or well-known the players might be -- almost subconsciously, for a brief hour or two, a peculiar bond is flash-forged between player and spectator, the latter's emotions rising or falling with every brilliant shot or missed putt, any of which may stimulate casual banter between the two or, more likely, just one-sided conversation. Such is the case when David and I fall in alongside the unfamiliar trio of Chris Kirk, Craig Bowden, and Bronson Burgoon for six closing holes.

Burgoon, a youthful amateur from Texas A&M, quickly becomes the darling of some raucous fellows who have consumed too many $6.00 beers -- as have thousands of others that day, some of whom will earn a sour notoriety by heckling Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, and prompt tournament watchdogs to shut down beer service thirty minutes early, after 110,000 cups have been served, compared to an equal number of water and soda combined.

"Go Aggie," they shout, spurring him on with every swing, to which he responds with a sheepish grin and a half-hearted wave. We are within club lengths as he bravely thrashes out of the deep woods on thirteen (but still makes bogey) on his way to a back nine 42, seven over par. One of his partners, Chris Kirk, fares no better, losing a ball -- much to our amazement -- in the thick six-inch sawgrass on sixteen, in spite of frantic searches by all three players, their caddies, and several negligent officials and ball boys.

By 4:00 PM we have had enough of battling the elements. The ride home goes a lot faster -- probably because we are entertained by an affable fellow -- whom we actually encountered on the golf course gleefully flashing his cell phone ("You've got to know how to sneak them in.") -- who manages to recount his entire life story and that of his father -- a thirty-seven-year New York City detective -- to two visiting couples from Florida in the forty-five minutes between Farmingdale and Manhattan.

Safely ensconced in his dry apartment, David and I watch the remaining two hours of the U.S. Open broadcast on his 50" plasma HD television, before a final downpour mercifully ends play. We dine that evening with some friends of his at a quiet neighborhood Italian restaurant, and enjoy a pleasant meal, until the waiter pulls a New York surprise, smugly rejecting my credit card and condescendingly informing me that this is a cash-only establishment.

One live sporting event a weekend is enough for my media-oriented son, and so, even though it's Father's day, I am destined to fly solo for the last leg of this three-day whirlwind tour -- interleague play between the Tampa Bay Rays and the New York Mets at the new Citi Field in Queens. After a ten-mile run along the Hudson River Parkway (only three avenues from my hotel) and a satisfying brunch at the Comfort Diner, I once again board the Long Island Railroad (the Port Washington branch) for a twenty-minute train ride to Mets-Willets Point.

As one who loves the sport and follows the teams, players, and statistics religiously from Opening Day to the crowning of a World Series champion -- actually, a day of mourning for me, as it marks the beginning of a five-month dry spell -- I never forgo the opportunity to see a Major League baseball game, no matter who's playing -- although I would certainly prefer to see my beloved -- and hapless (this year) -- Oakland Athletics. (If you wonder, "Why them?" just read Michael Lewis's "Moneyball.")

Thus, the anticipation steadily builds as I pass through the impressive portico and make my up -- one, two, three levels -- to find my $90 seat (which, I read later, could be had for half that, as the Mets were desperate to fill their new stadium). I am hoping for something better, but this is New York; actually, even from the third deck, I am close to the field and have a sweeping view of all but the far right corner, where, in the sixth inning, Met catcher Jeff Schneider hits a home run off the Pepsi sign. (So I am told by a fellow behind me.)

Citi Field boasts all the amenities fans have come to expect of the current generation of ball parks, which was spawned by Baltimore's Camden Yards, and now includes Washington's Nationals Park and Philadelphia's Citizens Bank Park: a proliferation of food stations every one hundred feet serving typical beefy cuisine and beer and soda at inflated prices; patio dining and drinking above the bleachers in center field, where the two men sitting next to me migrate around the seventh inning; a fabulous scoreboard, employing the ultimate in techno-wizardry, displaying every relevant statistic, updated instantaneously, and featuring the obligatory animated diversions; and, of course, the playing field, a geometrical jewel, the luxuriant green outfield a pastoral garden planted amidst concrete and steel, mowed in alternating strips clearly discernible from my elevated seat, the sandy infield manicured in stark contrast, all accented by chalked batter's box and foul lines.

As the nine defenders race to their assigned positions, one wonders how they can cover this broad expanse. (They can't, of course.)

Finally, after a stirring rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner" -- to be followed in the seventh inning by "God Bless America" -- it's time to "Play Ball."

This is an interesting match-up. Both teams are hovering around the .500 mark, a severe underperformance for the Mets, whose $135,000,000 payroll ranks second only to that of their crosstown Bronx rivals, while the upstart Rays, competing against those other New Yorkers in the fierce American League East, have come back to earth after their meteoric rise to last year's World Series. In all fairness, the Mets have been decimated by injuries to two of their star infielders, first baseman Carlos Delgado and shortstop Jose Reyes, and to two starting pitchers and two frontline relievers.

In order to stay focused on the game and to have source material for this blog, I decide to keep score, which I haven't done since I taught myself the methodology watching Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese broadcast the Saturday afternoon "Game of the Week" fifty years ago. On a scorecard, hits and outs are recorded using symbols to indicate the appropriate action and numbers to identify the fielder and the field position in play.

For example, referring to my scorecard, I see that, in the bottom of the sixth inning, with the Mets batting, Wright led off with a double to right field, and moved to third when Sheffield was thrown out, shortstop to first. Church walked, and then Schneider hit a home run to right field (the one I couldn't see), driving in Wright and Church. Valdez flied out to center field. Tatis, batting for the pitcher Stokes, struck out. The Mets scored three runs on two hits.

While to some baseball appears to be a slow-moving game with only occasional bursts of activity, therein lies its beauty. Turn away for an instant, and you miss the play -- which happens to me when Cora, leading off the bottom of the first, is suddenly walking back to the dugout, leaving me mystified and my scorecard displaying an embarrassing blank space, until, two innings later, the omniscient scoreboard comes to my rescue and informs me that Cora, in his first at-bat, fouled out to the catcher.

The game commences at 1:10 PM, and, with an expected duration of two-and-a-half hours, I am wondering how I am going to occupy myself during the five-hour interim before my scheduled LaGuardia departure at 8:30 PM -- a needless worry, as it turns out.

In the second inning, as the Rays (or is it the Mets?) are coming to bat, the field is mysteriously cleared, and remains so for about twenty minutes, to the increasing consternation of the fans. When play resumes, it is with three umpires instead of four, the home plate occupant having been stricken by some unspecified illness, which necessitates one of his comrades donning his protective equipment. A fellow in front of me offers as reasonable an explanation as any: "He ate a couple of Nathan's hot dogs."

By the time I get to the ballpark, the morning rain has stopped, and, as the game progresses, the cloud cover dissipates, unveiling a blue sky and a refreshing halo of bright sunshine. Around the sixth or seventh inning, however, the perverse weather pattern which has been afflicting the area for weeks blows in another shower, stopping play. This affords me the opportunity not only to lay aside my scorecard, locate a bathroom, and invest in a spicy Italian sausage (which looked too good to resist being eaten beside me), but also, upon my return to my sheltered seat, to observe the expertise of the field crew as, like soldiers in precise formation, they expeditiously unroll the protective tarp, and then repeat the process in reverse when the rain passes on an hour later.

The game itself is an extended affair. By the time the last out is made at 5:30, the Rays have scored ten runs on seventeen hits; the Mets, six runs on ten hits. A steady rotation of pitchers -- the Mets throw seven into the fray, the Rays only one fewer -- slows down the clock, as each mid-inning change involves two managerial trips to the mound, a long ride (or trot) in from the bullpen, and the requisite number of warm-up pitches. Each team uses three pinch-hitters, one of whom, for the Rays, oddly enough, is a pitcher, Sonnanstine, an American Leaguer who doesn't normally bat.

Needless to say, I see lots of action. The Mets twice take leads, 2-0 in the second and 5-4 in the sixth (after Schneider's home run), only to see the resourceful Rays storm back. In the seventh inning, the Rays play havoc with my scorecard, sending ten men to the plate, smashing two singles, two doubles, and a home run, scoring four runs, and taking an 8-5 lead they will not relinquish. The principal victim is rookie David Parnell, who is charged with all the damage, and fails to retire a single batter.

It's Father's Day -- and the scoreboard never lets any of the 25,000 in attendance (officially 39,000, but I never saw them) forget it, offering up sentimental trivia about each player's father as he comes to bat and broadcasting a mini-contest in which proud youngsters testify as to "Why My Dad is the Best."

Although none of my five children is with me -- two call during the afternoon -- I am not alone. The comraderie of a sporting event quickly envelops me like a cozy blanket, particularly here, at a baseball game, where the relaxed, leisurely pace is most conducive to one's striking up a conversation with a neighbor, initially about baseball -- the tribulations and successes of one's favorite team; individual batting averages, home runs, won-lost records; tall tales of ball games long past -- but soon drifting into personal revelations. For three fleeting hours on a Sunday afternoon, in the city of millions, a common interest in the greatest game makes friends out of total strangers.

There is no triple play on the field that day, yet as I sit on the Q48 bus to LaGuardia -- scorning a $25 limousine ride, I walk six blocks, hop on another bus, and transfer in Chinatown Flushing -- I reflect that I have experienced a three-day weekend just as rare: grand theater, the premier golf tournament in the world, and an ordinary, yet exciting, midseason Major League baseball game -- just three more reasons why New York City is a traveler's paradise, and Lynchburg, Virginia, by contrast, is a comforting place to come home to.