Baseball Madness

"Don't you get bored looking at those little dots?" queries JSG, rhetorically, of course, since she already knows the answer, as I slide not very surreptitiously into her computer alcove, fire up her magnificent iMac, type in my second favorite (after "My Occasional Pieces") web site: mlb.com (the acronym for Major League Baseball), and open the Gameday window for the Oakland A's vs. whomever their opponent might be.

"You do realize," I reply, trying not to sound overly pedantic, "that they don't make them just for me," a judgment I admit to having rendered upon other frequented but better left unmentioned internet destinations. And if further evidence of their proliferation be required, I submit that my cantankerous phone (a Droid, not an Apple) has driven me to surf for alternates like espn.go.com and mweb.cbssports.com for similar entertainment.

Those ornery dots she's referring to are real-time (or slightly delayed) pitches that come sizzling into the hitting zone from the vibrant background of the home stadium before exploding into their telltale color codes -- red for a strike (or foul), green for a ball, and blue for multiple in-play options: no out, out(s), or run(s) -- while an image of the batter stands suspended in his proper right or left-handed alignment awaiting along with the viewer the good or bad breaking news.

JSG's bewilderment at my curious fixation is not without foundation; why would I, and presumably thousands more, subject ourselves to this bizarre and excruciating exercise when for a mere $19.99 a month we can enjoy a televised broadcast? The pithy answer is that what is sheer madness to the unenlightened makes perfect sense to the zealot.

Consider first that the only team worth three hours of my undivided attention is that obscure Oakland stepchild, which rarely emerges from the Giant shadow of its Bay Area counterpart unless sewage floods the visitors' locker room in its antiquated football coliseum, its clean-up hitter is traded to the Red Sox, darling of the East Coast media, which finally figures out how to pronounce his name correctly (Ces-pe-des), or Hollywood casts Brad Pitt in the movie Moneyball as heroic underdog Billy Beane, the shrewd general manager struggling to compete on a shoestring budget against the deep-pocketed New Yorkers and Bostonians.

Long before the book of the same name hit the silver screen -- back in 2004, shortly after its publication -- a timely reading convinced me to switch loyalties. A diehard Cubs fan since the late sixties, I had become disenchanted with a management that suddenly gulped the free agent Kool-Aid, signing purported superstars to expensive long-term contracts. The maneuver backfired, turning the formerly lovable losers into mere sputtering spendthrifts.

A dearth of coverage by ESPN -- which is televising to a national audience only four of their games all season despite a four-month first-place standing -- is only one problem with being an Athletics supporter. The other is that at least half of their games don't start until 10:00 PM, which is generally past my bedtime, unless an occasional outbreak of insomnia or an irresistible urge to tune in to the proceedings should disrupt my routine. Even when neither does, another persistent symptom of male aging -- the after-midnight wake-up call -- usually enables me to check the final score, which can be either a soothing soporific (if favorable) or an annoying stimulant (if not-so-favorable).

Is it conceivable that those late hours are simply a convenient justification of both my parsimony and my eccentricity and that, persistently captivated by the tripartite symmetry with which it replicates the statistical, contemplative, and spasmodic nature of the game, I actually prefer the static, transcribed version to the live one?

Flanking the batter on the left are the specifics of each pitch -- type, speed, break, nasty factor, accumulated total -- followed by, after a brief but suspenseful wait, a posting of the result when the ball is put in play: out, hit, or error. To his right is the box score, the minute-by-minute record of each player's performance for the day, including his batting and earned run averages, which are recalculated after every at-bat. Underneath is displayed the line score of runs per inning, the ball and strike count, and the number of outs -- so that regardless of when one tunes in, he grasps the immediate situation. And with the click of his mouse, he can summon videos of highlights he has missed.

Absent the intrusive commentators and analysts whose superfluous blather diminishes rather than enhances the rhythmical pace -- which, like the graph of an electrocardiogram, flatlines for extended periods before erupting in a flurry of movement -- a blessed silence envelopes me and, oddly enough, amplifies the intensity as my imagination conjures up an A's positive outcome for each successive pitch, only to be foiled time and again.

In one respect, the virtual experience surpasses the camera lens's capability: whereas the former envisions the entire field and team positioning, so critical to superior defense, the latter of necessity focuses on players either in isolation or in two or three-men combinations, darting from pitcher to batter to infield to outfield as the action unfolds. Which is why no electronic medium can capture the placid beauty and intermittent frenzy of what is still America's pastime -- even though it may been overtaken in popularity by the orchestrated violence and addictive monotony of public pornography by another name: football.

And why, once or twice a season, I pack an overnight bag and journey by plane, train, or automobile, with or without a companion, to some ballpark within reasonable proximity (which excludes the west coast) to cheer the visiting Oakland A's to victory over the home team.

I've tracked my heroes to Toronto, New York, and Chicago, but the closest venue is, of course, Baltimore, where the splendid Orioles Park at Camden Yards overlooks a bustling Inner Harbor. The A's are making their once-a-year road trip there the first week in June, which looks good to me until I fracture my right fibula early one morning while running in Phoenix, Arizona, and end up in an orthopedic boot just as the crowd is rising for the National Anthem.

Interleague play will be bringing the A's cross-country in mid-August for a rare three games in Atlanta, but my daughter Sara has enlisted JSG and me for granddaughter-sitting (she's a fourteen-month-old in perpetual motion) duty in Ithaca, New York -- exquisite timing, as it turns out, since the Braves break out the brooms and sweep the series.

That leaves two options -- Arlington, Texas, home to the Rangers, or Houston, launching pad for the Astros. The Lone Star State is miserably hot and humid in mid-summer, advises JSG, who grew up there, prompting me to verify a suspicion lodged deep in the furrows of my brain: the Astros play in a climate-controlled indoor stadium with a retractable roof, the judiciously rechristened Minute Maid Park, formerly Enron Field. As if I needed any further incentives, lower-box home-plate tickets for these perennial laggards are very reasonably priced, and Houston, the nation's fourth largest city, is a place I've never been to before.

The schedule offers another advantage: getaway day, a Wednesday afternoon game so timed as to allow visitors (who include the A's and me) to catch an evening flight home. And a Tuesday morning departure from Lynchburg deposits me in Houston around noon, giving me several hours to relax, dine, and find my way to the ballpark before the seven o'clock start.

As I'm sitting in the airport lobby waiting for a shuttle to my downtown Club Quarters Hotel, baseball madness sneak attacks like a ninth-inning uprising. Beside me is a peculiar character all decked out in a khaki suit and houndstooth fedora which I shrug off as some retro idiosyncrasy until he shouts across to the room to a New York Yankee tee shirt garbed fellow, "Hey, Sam, are you going to the convention?"

My curiosity piqued, I make it a point to slither aboard next to him in order to learn what that is all about. His name is Maxwell Kates, and he's taking a few days off from his accounting practice in Toronto to attend, along with about three hundred other diamond devotees, the 44th annual convocation of SABR, the Society for American Baseball Research.

Founded in 1971 at the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, by L. Robert Davids, the organization has mushroomed from a modest roster of sixteen to over six thousand worldwide. While many major and minor league officials, writers, broadcasters, and former players belong, the vast majority of the members are "just plain fans" furthering their enjoyment of the game by exploring its rich history.

Featured on this year's agenda are such tantalyzing topics as Why Does the Home Team Score So Much in the First Inning; Jackie Robinson Wasn't the Dodgers First Choice; Was Mantle's Peak Value Greater than Mays's; and "The Bikers Beat the Boy Scouts": Facial Hair and the 1972 World Series, presented by none other than Maxwell Kates.

Yes, in an excerpt from his forthcoming book about the 1970's Oakland A's, my scholarly seatmate will describe the origins of baseball dress codes in the 1960's, the role the A's green and yellow uniforms, straggly locks, beards, and moustaches played in fomenting change, and the staunch resistance exerted by staid, conservative teams like the A's 1972 opponents, the Cincinnati Reds, who forbade the hairy garnishments. Which explains Kates's outlandish attire: he's posing as the A's owner of the period, the flamboyant and innovative Charley Finley.

My hotel wants to charge me $60 to check in early, which I politely decline, but does offer a spacious common area with comfortable seating for reading or television viewing, four desktops and free internet service, and complimentary all-you-can-consume coffee and chex mix. During the course of three leisurely hours I run across another Oakland A's crazy (easily identified in his green and gold cap), who's pursued his prey even further than I, all the way from Seattle; he and a buddy from his native Bay Area are in the midst of their annual two-city road trip, catching the A's in Arlington and now in Houston.

Minute Maid Park is about a fifteen-minute walk; I'll either enjoy some coliseum cuisine or pass an enticing restaurant along the way -- like "Irma's Southwest Grill," which appears to be the hottest spot to seek refuge from the blistering heat. Ducking indoors, I ask the hostess to see a menu, to which she replies, "I'm sorry, sir, we don't have menus."

I try, "How much are your entrees?" only to be greeted with, "It depends on what you order." It usually does, I think to myself. Pointing to a group of loitering diners sampling quesadillas and nachos, I plead, "How much is the buffet?" to no avail since, "It's not a buffet; it's a private party."

I'm hungry, but frustrated and just about to leave when an energetic fellow approaches, introduces himself as Louis, the owner (Irma is his mother), and proceeds to give me a brief history of the family business, which has thrived in two locations for years without menus. He steers me toward a small two-top beside a window, and recommends his famous chile relleno with chips and guacamole, promising I won't be disappointed by the recipe nor impoverished by the price. When I decline the guacamole, recalling the $45 tableside-prepared variety at Rosa Mexicano's in New York City, he brings it anyway, gratis, he says, which limits my bill to a reasonable eighteen dollars, half of which I allocate to the food and half to the pleasure of his company.

Houston has more surprises in store for me the next morning. Salivating for Starbucks, I ask my phone to find me the closest one, which is about three miles away, too far to walk; when it pinpoints a Seattle's Best within four blocks I decide to take a chance.

Granted it's already ninety degrees with the humidity a few ticks higher, yet at ten in the morning one would expect to see the sidewalks of this downtown metropolis jam-packed; instead the only glimmers of life are a few delivery vans, construction workers, and barricades that complicate my route. Arriving at the address, 777 Walker Street, I look backward, forward, across the street, and even around the corner, but either this coffee shop never was or has abruptly ceased operations. I'm about to head home when, peering through the glass door of the massive office building rising before me, I notice a woman riding an escalator from a lower level up to the first floor, coffee cup in hand.

"Aha!" I shout (to no one), as I stride across the gaping lobby and bolt downstairs. I spy not only my cafe but two or three other upscale fast-food eateries, some weird color-coded signage and diagrams plastered to the walls, and corridors branching right and left from the space where I'm standing, mystified. I've landed in a vast pedestrian underground, seven miles of labyrinthine tunnels connecting seventy-seven buildings and ninety-five city blocks, categorized as street loops in red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and black, and "crammed with Houstonians lunching, shopping, and power-walking in dry, air-conditioned comfort." (Blumenthal, Ralph, New York Times, August 21, 2007)

It's neither centrally planned nor linked to a subway or elevated train. While nothing says north, south, east, or west, I don't find the system as intimidating as some locals contend, including David Gerst, who counts 3000 potential customers passing by his sandwich shop daily and says, "You have to memorize the buildings." For about an hour I explore this subterranean mall, navigating a path to the exit closest to my hotel, wending my way through a warren of restaurants, boutiques, florists, jewelers, pharmacies, beauty salons, banks, post offices, and printing services. (Blumenthal, Ralph, New York Times, August 21, 2007)

If the tunnels are cool, Minute Maid Park is even cooler, with the thermostat dialed down to a sub-seventy setting that prickles the hair on my exposed arms and legs. Or maybe that's just the normal rush that suffuses me every time when I reach my section entry point and gaze out over the glorious landscape of a major league ballpark.

And this one's a beauty: three levels of amphitheater seating soaring almost to the steel-beamed ceiling; a towering glass wall five hundred feet distant protecting the enclosure from the nearly visible shimmering heat waves; the immaculately manicured and unblemished outfield lawn sloping in its far reaches up Towle's Hill; the perfectly-groomed topsoil diamond, soon to be roiled by darting defenders and sliding speedsters; the gigantic high definition smart scoreboard suspended in center field, powered by Daktronics, Gameday on steroids, tracking every pitch, hit, and play with sound, lights, and statistical precision, while seizing down time for crass commercial messages, topical quizzes or brain teasers, and roving candid camera shots.

Over behind the visitors' dugout a raucous swarm of green-and-gold clad A's faithful is buzzing the hive in hopes of luring royalty from the honeycombs. And indeed they have: pitcher Scott Kazmir, a fuzzy-faced, grinning youth who looks like a Little Leaguer is autographing balls and programs as fast and furiously as his admirers can thrust them over the rail and into his hand. His magnetism can be attributed to his all-star status and Houston roots.

Signing Kazmir to a two-year $22 million contract was one of General Manager Beane's most astute moves during the off-season. A breakdown in his mechanics and a groin injury derailed his promising career and drove him into early retirement in 2011 and 2012; last year the Cleveland Indians gambled on his reconstructed delivery and were rewarded with ten wins, a number he has already exceeded by two thus far (it's July 30th) while posting an impressive 2.37 earned run average.

He's one more cog in the well-oiled machine Beane has brilliantly constructed on the sixth-lowest payroll in baseball, about $84 million. His success lies in having reconfigured his statistically-based Moneyball formula into a four-pronged strategy: mining major and minor league rosters for the undervalued nugget who can be had for a pittance; identifying the productive second-tier free agent who won't demand the long-term contract that can hamstring team and financial flexibility; jettisoning peak performers when they can yield the maximum return in prospects or immediate contributors; and leveraging platoon splits (left-handed batters' superior prowess against right-handed pitching, and vice-versa) to assemble line-ups of depth and versatility.

Three years ago he swapped star pitcher Gio Gonzalez for (among others) right-handed-hitting catcher Derek Norris, who shares duties behind the plate with another trade acquisition, left-handed hitting John Jaso. A third catcher, Stephen Vogt, who spends more time in right field or at first base, went hitless in twenty-five appearances for Tampa in 2012 before Beane took a flier on him; he's batting .351 with Oakland since being called up from the minors in May. The team's runs batted in leader, Josh Donaldson, also a former catcher, was a low-level throw-in when Beane dealt the talented but sore-armed Rich Harden to the Cubs in 2008. Free agent Brandon Moss languished for five years as both Boston and Pittsburgh tried to convert him into a spray hitter; when Beane unleashed his left-handed power, he became a legitimate home run threat. Although right fielder Josh Reddick has struggled to duplicate his thirty-two homer output in 2012, he has far outperformed injury-hampered reliever Andrew Bailey, for whom he was obtained that year from Boston.

Anchoring this eclectic assortment is Cuban refugee Yoenis Cespedes, whose uncharacteristic 2012 signing by Beane (four years, $36 million) surprised the pundits but whose brute strength and rifle arm have more than compensated for his flailing at down-and-away sliders and misjudging fly balls.

Epitomizing the Beane magic is thirty-year-old Jesse Chavez, who was owned by four different teams since 2004 before Oakland purchased his contract in 2012. Adding a cutter to his fastball, change-up, and curve enabled him to progress from 2013 long-relief man to this season's rotation, where he has won eight, lost six, and allowed just over three earned runs a game.

The rap on Beane is that he has never taken home a World Series ring, nor even reached the final round, having been bounced five times in either the Divisional or League Championship preliminary. "The playoffs are a crap shoot," he said after one heartbreaker, and indeed luck is more likely to be a determining factor over five or seven games than over 162. Which begs the question: how to minimize the effect of the untimely missed catch or bloop single?

Beane's answer is to shore up his pitching staff. Despite owning the best record in baseball (indeed, the best since Opening Day 2012) and a team run differential (the excess of runs scored over runs allowed) of 127, twice that of the runner-up, on July 5th he sacrifices an uncertain future (two of his most prized minor leaguers) for a presumed Chicago Cubs' guarantee: Jeff Samardzija, a flame-thrower in his prime, and Jason Hammel, a journeyman throwing like a Hall of Famer, both of whom, oddly enough, will be starting the two games I'm in Houston to see. To make room on the roster, he options a three-year mainstay of his rotation, Tommy Milone, to the minors, convinced that his six victories in his last seven opportunities are an aberration, given his mid-eighties mph fastball.

Some might say it's madness to attend a baseball game without a mate; I maintain it's a place where one is never alone, where cerebral engagement invites jovial camaraderie. Although the crowds are sparse -- the Astros are only one game from the League basement -- my green-and-gold cap proclaims a loyalty that sparks conversation with both fellow acolytes and home town boosters. I encounter a Bay Area transplant now living several hundred miles north of here who never misses the A's when they come to Houston. A father and son from Oakland have detoured en route to Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where the latter is a returning sophomore. One row down is a proud gentleman cheering as his high school all-star grandson is presented a bat from A's hitting coach Chili Davis. Beside me is a local whose father was a long-time executive with the original Colt .45's.

I can't ever remember sitting this close to home plate, almost at ground level. There's one unintended consequence: the on-deck area is directly in front of me, and, depending on where he stands while loosening up and practicing his swings, the batter due up next may be obstructing my view -- an irritant easily remedied by my relocating to one of the hundreds of vacancies surrounding me.

On the other hand, my vantage point gives me a whole new appreciation for the skill sets required to master this game at its highest level. To control the placement of a three-inch diameter projectile hurled sixty feet at speeds varying from 80 to 95 mph within a four-foot rectangle; to make contact almost instantaneously with that projectile while it's darting left, right or downward, much less drive it 400 feet, with a shaped wooden club; to snag that projectile or pick it off the ground while it's traveling at an even greater velocity and throw it with accuracy 120 feet while running or off balance; even to judge the arc of a fly ball curling in various directions -- the difficulties of these feats are magnified by my startling proximity to them.

What I'm about to witness will take me on an emotional roller-coaster ride. Despite their stellar record, the first-place A's are looking over their shoulders at the hard-charging Los Angeles Angels, who trail them by only one-and-a-half games. They stumbled yesterday against an Astro team which, while more competitive than last year's one-hundred-eleven loss punching bag, represents the soft underbelly of the league.

And they're no easy mark tonight either. I'm keeping a scorecard, recording the result of every player's at-bat -- strikeout, walk, ground out, pop out, line out, single, double, triple, or home run -- employing an esoteric system of numerical and alphabetical symbols, and the narrative is depressing. Astro's shortstop Marwin Gonzalez homers to right in the second inning. In the fifth, center fielder Enrique Hernandez blasts a triple to center, driving in Robbie Grossman, who singled and stole second base ahead of him, and then scores himself on a single by the Astro's bona fide star, diminutive Jose Altuve. Two innings later a Hernandez double plates Jon Singleton, who had walked, sending A's starter Samardzija to the showers.

Meanwhile, Scott Feldman, veteran of four teams spanning an unremarkable ten years, limits the lifeless A's to three walks and five hits, including a rather innocuous Josh Reddick home run. And after Josh Fields retires them quietly in order in the eighth inning, they're down to their last three outs, staring up from a 1-4 deficit.

Since 2012 these gritty battlers have established a reputation for stunning come-from-behind and walk-off (or final at-bat) wins, inspiring one of their announcers to coin the phrase, "Never give up on the Oakland A's." He might claim they've got the Astros right where they want them, but frankly, while I'm here for the duration, I'm not anticipating much more than a swift, somber exit.

And then, suddenly, with nary a cloud in sight, a bolt of lightning penetrates our protective dome, and strikes unsuspecting closer Chad Qualls. After Vogt goes down swinging, a Norris infield dribbler and a ringing Reddick double put two men on base. Manager Bob Melvin decides to pinch hit the weak-hitting Alberto Callaspo for the even more challenged Eric Sogard. My jaw drops as Callaspo strokes a line drive into center field, drawing the A's within one run and arousing their several hundred slumbering fans.

A Jaso fielder's choice pushes the A's to the brink of ruination. But Jed Lowrie works a walk, and up steps the menacing Yoenis Cespedes. He doesn't disappoint this time, muscling a soft liner into right and tying the game. The rest is pure icing, as a Donaldson double on the heels of a Moss single brings in three more runs.

It's an exhilarating win, a crushing loss, an amazing ninth-inning turn of events which, regardless of which dugout one is wedded to -- I assert with utmost sincerity -- confirms once again that this is, and always will be, the greatest game. Even JSG can't contain her excitement. While she still discards the sports section of the newspaper as perfunctorily as I do the advertising inserts, she's absorbed through osmosis enough propaganda to induce her to inquire of her Apple Siri, "How are the A's doing tonight?" Shame on me for ever having doubted the breadth and depth of Siri's intellect; upon returning to my hotel room, where I have left the cell phone I am not enslaved to, I discover this gratifying yet somewhat gratuitous text from JSG: "I hope you stayed till the end."

Because baseball is played almost every day, the euphoria of victory (or the agony of defeat) is often fleeting, as evidenced by the following afternoon's game, which is a grotesque mirror image of its predecessor. If Jason Hammel has been abysmal since coming over from the Cubs -- he's lost all three of his starts, lasting a total of thirteen innings, and surrendering ten earned runs -- his redemption will have to wait. Before the paltry crowd of ten thousand or so is settled in, the Astros match the A's six-run inning with one of their own -- in their first at bat.

Hammel almost escapes, although it only would have delayed the inevitable. After two one-out singles, Marc Krauss's grounder to second baseman Nick Punto looks tailor-made for a double play, but shortstop Jed Lowrie's relay to first is late, allowing one run to score and leaving the door open for further damage. A walk and two singles bring home three more, before Robbie Grossman launches a two-run shot to right field. Hammel will show some flashes of competence, allowing only two more batters to reach base until the fifth inning, when Jon Singleton ends his night with another two-run long ball.

The A's are helpless against young lefthander Dallas Keuchel, managing only three walks and four hits, including a solo home run by Josh Donaldson in the second inning. I have to leave in the eighth to catch my plane, as certain as looming mortality that there will be no resurrection from this 1-8 interment; Keuchel's going the distance on a nifty one hundred eleven pitches, lest the Astros' leaky bullpen squander his sterling effort.

Two thrashings by the lowly Astros sandwiched around a miraculous rally -- is this embarrassing performance an ominous harbinger of some grievous reversal of fortune? Victimized by shoddy execution on the mound and at the plate, are the A's showing cracks in their previously invincible armor?

More madness ensues the next day, Thursday, July 31st. Flummoxed by the Hammel implosion, pondering a Kazmir injury or a Chavez innings overload, confident in his line-up's ability to sustain excellence despite some recent disturbing futility, hungry for the ace he's always lacked to nail down that one big victory, Beane puts all his chips on the table.

In a move even more audacious and shocking than his original signing, he sends Cespedes -- the reigning Home Run Derby king; the stable hitter whom, along with Donaldson, Manager Bob Melvin can place in the middle of the order every day to build his platoons around; the flawed slugger whose potential is forever out of reach yet who, at any moment, with one mighty swing, can change the course of a game; the possessor of some indefinable elixir that enables his team to win 67% of the time when he plays but only 40% of the time when he doesn't -- to the Boston Red Sox for Jon Lester, one of the best pitchers in baseball.

Lester's only going to be around for two months; Beane won't be able to afford him when his contract expires at the end of the season. He's in town for one purpose: to help the A's win the World Series, where he's undefeated (3-0) with an earned run average of 0.43.

But first they have to get there. And as a fan who's touted Beane's genius and reveled in the exploits of his handiwork, I'm wondering whether this is a case of tinkering too much with what isn't really broken. What front runner trades its number three hitter in the midst of a pennant race? Can a pitcher, no matter how good he is, who only influences the outcome every fifth day, compensate for so great a loss? What is the impact on a team's morale -- and chemistry, if the concept exists -- of such a wrenching disruption? And how will this formerly loose, carefree band of upstart overachievers respond to the burden of rising expectations, to the pressure of knowing that nothing less than a championship will constitute calamitous failure?

POSTSCRIPT

Following the Cespedes-Lester trade, plagued by nagging injuries, prolonged batting slumps, and mediocre pitching, the Oakland Athletics will suffer a monumental collapse, losing twenty of their next thirty-four games, relinquishing first place in the American League West to the streaking Los Angeles Angels, and relegating themselves to the dreaded Wild Card play-in game, if they can hold on to that. Meanwhile, Cespedes will hit .295 with four home runs and twenty-seven rbi in thirty-three games for the Red Sox.