« still here | Main | musings on missing my daughter »
October 01, 2005
baseball
Thursday:
Courtesy of Dave (we have so many caring friends), we had 4 Club Level tickets to SBC Park to watch the San Francisco Giants play the Chicago Cubs.
This one I figured was a better bet to take Naomi to than the football game. First, the club level is secluded from the rest of the park. They have their own concessions, and a fully enclosed area behind the seats, so if Naomi got upset, I could take her in there and walk her around and not distract other people.
Jun and Olivia also joined us for the game, so that's two other people who love to play with our daughter and would be perfectly willing to carry her if we got tired.
So I sprint to SBC Park from work (the first day in months that I've left before the sun went down) and meet up with Jun, since he works in the city, and we're waiting there for the wives, who are stuck in traffic. We kill time by heading into the souvenir store, where Jun buys a jersey. When the girls finally got in (damn traffic), we headed up to the seats. Unfortunately, the Cubs were already up by 2 runs at that point. We settle into our seats out by Right Field and I'm reminding myself to try and enjoy the game and be calm. Just then the Giant who is at bat hits a single through the left side and advances a runner on first base. I let out a whoop.
With Naomi firmly in my arms.
At least this time, I realized right away what I had done, where as Naomi had somewhat of a delayed reaction. We literally watched as her face slowly scrunched up and she started to cry. Jenn gave me a dirty look and then shrugged her shoulders in resignation. Its funny, I don't remember not being able to control my game cheering since I was a kid. Its partially when you're at the park and everyone else around you is doing the same that you feel like you have to as well. Not that I'm making excuses. Two games in the same week, the first thing I do at both is cheer into my daughter's ear and make her cry. Some father.
But at least this time, since I didn't yell as loudly, nor is a baseball game as loud as a football game, generally, Naomi was in better spirits. She is actually still ok in my lap just a few innings later, when we look to our right and see a cameraman. Apparently, they like to take pictures of cute babies (how they found us, we still don't know). While most parents would try to be cute and grab their baby's hand and make them wave or something, I just held her under the shoulders and thrust her out at the camera, as if I was asking the camera guy to take her or something. And lo and behold, Naomi's face fills the Jumbotron/Diamondvision/whatever they call that big screen out in Center field.
this is the picture we wish we had taken of it.
Unfortunately, we were both so star-struck that when we finally realized we should take a picture of Naomi on the big screen, they had already stopped filming. Which was ok too because Naomi had just about had enough and started scrunching up for another cry. For all to see.
The rest of the game passed uneventfully, with the unfortunate outcome of the Giants losing. I did finally make it out to the pitching cage behind the bleachers. Since the Giants moved out to SBC Park, they have had a pitching cage with a radar gun out there, and I've always been dying to see what I can clock. Right after I graduated from college, my girlfriend took me to the Exploratorium when they were having a Sport Science and Physics exhibition and they had a pitching cage there. The numbers they showed back then, I was hitting 90-94 on the gun. Even everyone lined up was "ooh-ing" and "aah-ing". No, I'm not dreaming this. Of course, when I got back from that, none of my friends believed me (girlfriends who don't know sports aren't much help) so I've always wanted a second shot to see what kind of big-league cannon I've got hanging off my shoulder.
So taking a walk out there, there was actually no line for the pitching for once. So I pull out my 4 bucks and eagerly await my turn. I notice on the whiteboard that some kids have hit 80 on the gun. I'm watching the people ahead of me. This one guy who looks to be in his early 20s is throwing the crap out of the ball, and hitting 75. Then come a parade of kids who are throwing and hitting 50, 55.
Apparently, this year, they've added a fake batter and catcher at the end of the pitching cage, and if you even nick the catcher's glove, you hear the Ump call "Steeerike!"
And now its my turn. I pay my fee, turn to the worker handing out the baseballs, and take the balls from him. I turn back towards the batter and get into my stance. I go into my windup, kick my leg out and fire the ball at the catcher. My eyes go to the Juggs radar gun display on the top right of the cage.
56.
Damn, that can't be right. That's miles per hour. That's slower than Kirk Rueter's slowest pitch. That's probably the same speed as an eephus pitch. I go into my windup and fire another one at the catcher again.
57.
At this point, I'm not even looking at the gathered crowd. I don't want to see any looks of pity or stifled laughter. Apparently, I rank up there with the best 13 year olds, at least according to the whiteboard. I'm debating whether to throw my last pitch submarine-style or maybe a higher leg kick will give me more momentum to the plate. To heck with it, I don't even bother aiming at the catcher anymore and I throw with all my strength into the cage. The ball bounces to the left of the catcher and ricochets behind him.
59.
Defeated, I walk off and slink back to our seats. Man, that was a reality check. That gun I threw at years ago was either calibrated to be nice to guests or was measuring in km/hour. I told Jun as I got back, he chuckled as if to say, "Well, what did you think?" It definitely gives me major respect for those flamethrowers on the mound who hit 100 mph. Randy Johnson, Kyle Farnsworth, Jason Schmidt (well not this year), my hat is off to you. And my hands will be in my pockets every time I pass by a pitching cage from now on.
Posted by spoof747 at October 1, 2005 02:46 AM