Written by Casey Neal
Daily Log of a Fresh-faced College Graduate
June 3, 2013
We watch the news reports the next morning as we eat our buffet breakfast. Percy Nor was picked up when one of his private jets tried to fly out of the country and into Cuba. Jared Spade has been taken to a psychiatric ward for a full assessment prior to determination as to whether he can stand trial for complicity in his father's murder, and Jeremy – the guy who stands to inherit the team – has been released by the Crystal Lake Police Department after having been retained as a person of interest.
"We kept Mr. Spade under surveillance as a routine practice in this kind of case," the CLPD spokeswoman said. "We have found no cause to hold him further, and our medical staff has confirmed he is healthy and none the worse for the abuse that his captors put him through."
"It's almost like the MLB all over again, eh?" I say.
"No."
"Really? You don't think this is a PR problem?"
"Sure it is, but this was an attack, dude – not a blight from the inside, not like gambling by players or racism or the whole steroid thing or whatever. I mean, it wasn't Manny Aguilar who screwed San Antonio. And they're handling it in grand fashion. Just look," he says, pointing to the screen that's flashing images of me and Don-o waving to the crowd last night. "The game's cool."
"You don't think this changed anything?"
Don-o shakes his head and looks as comfortable as if he's the freakin' Dali Lama or whoever. I take a deep breath and think about it, recalling the look on his face as he faced Percy Nor down, remembering the glimmer of the moon off his cheeks as he stood ready to sacrifice himself. If Don-o's comfortable about baseball, that's freakin' good enough for me.
#
Not having much else to do, Don-o's brother agreed to bring Annie out to Omaha. He arrived last night, red-cheeked and flustered. The car had a radiator leak and had the alternator go out en route, and he's pissed at the way it pulls left as she heads down the highway. "And she don't got no cruise control," he finishes with, as if Annie would ever put up with a driver who wasn't fully engaged. We offer to take him to Fargo, but he complains about his back and says he's had enough of her.So Don-o and I pile into the car, load up the cooler and head north on highway 29. It's a straight shot of a day's ride to Fargo, North Dakota, home of the North Dakota State Bison and the Fargo Dinosaurs. We're silent the first thirty minutes of the trip, just listening to the radio play top forty crap and sipping on a pair of beers that I agree to despite my arm because it just feels right. The skies are clear, but the weather is cold despite Annie doing her best to keep the wind off us. We're wearing sweatshirts, and Don-o's got on his jacket. A few of the cars that go by wave at us, and Don-o takes to tooting Annie's horn every time it happens. I swear that horn sounds more like a jazz trumpet every hour.
Being a bit of a celebrity is strange. Don-o's not about the limelight and he clearly hates it, but I'm finding it kind of fun. I mean, how much can it suck when guys walk up and want to shake your hand 'cause they just want to be around you? What's wrong with having fun telling Kenny Burke's national radio show what you think about the Warriors' chances and having him actually care about what you think? No one's ever wanted to be around me before. No one's ever wanted to know what I think. I got ideas. I like having someone ask about them, and if that means we get a few guys waving at us on the highway, it seems like a small enough price to pay.
During this first thirty minutes, I think about things like that, and I think about the Dinosaurs. They play in Jurassic Park, a place I haven't been to – the only ballpark in the United States that I can say that about now. Fargo has been a good-not-great team for almost all of its PEBA history. Despite being on a pace to win more than 90 games, the Dinos are in third place today – and if they finish there, it would break a string of three-straight second-place finishes. They've been to the playoffs once in that string, and you can pretty much write down that they'll bring about 2.4 million people to Jurassic – a number they've been around for the last four seasons.
Their off-season consisted of several small moves, the biggest of which was signing starting pitcher Edward Coleman to a two-year, $2M deal – an agreement that blew up a bit, as Coleman broke his elbow and is out pretty much all year. The bottom line, though, is that it seems to me that the word "stable" was invented for just such a franchise – or maybe just "boring". I can't tell if the Dino's are just going with the flow or whether they really think they can win as they stand. Are they confident, or is their approach really just the sign of a front office afraid to look bad?
And yet, here they are at 33-24, playing the best baseball of their history. You never know. They'll host Kalamazoo tomorrow. Fitting, I think. We started the trip off with a boat ride to Kalamazoo.
"Wish we could get to London," I say.
"That would be cool," Don-o replies.
I see him riding in Annie's driver's seat. She's riding smooth today – not a pull to the left. The alternator's cool and the water pump is pumping and the radiator radiating. The radio's gained strength as we've gone and it's playing John Fogerty's "Centerfield". This is our last trip to a ballpark. We've talked about it a time or two, but now the wind is whipping over Annie's exposed top and the sun is out, making the hair of Don-o's five-day stubble gleam with gold – not gold like Percy Nor's tooth, but gold like the fields of wheat we drive through, or gold like the glow of a pilsner in a plastic cup that you hold onto in the crook of your arm as you edge into your bleacher seat in right field. The trip is coming to its end. Despite the fact that I'm tired, that my arm aches and that I'm ready for it to end, I can't help my choke up just a freakin' little.
"What are you going to do now?" I ask.
Don-o shrugs. "You gonna move sofas?"
I shake my head and sip a cool sip. "Dunno."
My phone rings, but I almost don't hear it over the radio. Don-o turns it down as I dig the phone out of my pocket. "Hello?" I say. The wind that was whipping around is suddenly silent.
"Casey Neal?"
"Yeah."
"Wow," the voice says. It's male, and sounds a little old. "I'm really thrilled to be able to contact you. This is Brendon Lane. I'm with Esca-pod Books. I got your number from your mother. Hope you don't mind me contacting you."
"Yeah. Uh, no problem, I guess."
"I understand you've been keeping a diary of your travels, and Esca-pod books is very interested in publishing it if you're interested."
That's how it starts. They want to publish my story. Holy crap. They want to give me cash up front, and then more if it does well. They want to send me on a marketing pass at PEBA-related podcasts and think they can get me on several national sports channels. I tell him I'm sure we can work something out, and he tells me to go get an agent and we'll deal. When I hang up, the breeze comes again, and Don-o turns on the radio.
"What was it?" I tell him and he smiles. "Follow baseball," he says, "and it will provide."
#
It's a 7:05 game time, and we get there at about 4:30. This is a park that fits the team – nice and clean, a mix of the old with then new. The foul ground is small and the crowd is close to the action. Don-o and I flash our passes for the first time ever. The attendant smiles and welcomes us by giving us a coupon for a free Dino-Dog and Stego-Fries. We go down to the dugout area and watch John Collins taking BP, and the Fargo Dinosaurs running in the field. It's a day much like yesterday, a day for which the term "crisp" seems tailor-made. It feels like October. The wind is blowing out to left, and since Jurassic Park plays to the offense, we're expecting some fireworksFargo doesn't disappoint. Kalamazoo sends Dan Burhoe to the mound, and after the Dinos’ leadoff hitter strikes out looking, shortstop Ken Keddy drops a massive bomb into left-center. A hitter later, first baseman Ramón Flores hits its body-double and Fargo is up 2-0.
Fargo's starter is Javier Encarnación, a savvy lefty who is a joy to watch. At 30, he can still heat up the fastball on occasion, but he's more of a slider and change-of-speed kind of guy. He's a 6-foot, 7-inch windmill out on the mound, and that alone is entertaining enough to keep me in my seat. He's won 20 games before, and though he's struggling so far this spring, today he's looking more like the old Javier Encarnación.
He carries a no-hitter into the 6th that Doug Erickson breaks up with a solid line-drive double. The fans give Javier a good round of applause, though, and he rewards their fervor by getting out of it without giving up a run – though he was helped out a lot when centerfielder Tommy Fowler flashed some serious glove on a liner to short center. By that time, Fargo has picked up three more manufactured runs and leads 5-zip. Encarnación gives up a single to lead off the seventh. Manager Duncan Walker – who's been with the club since their inception – decides that's enough for Encarnación and hands the ball to their bullpen.
Don-o's not pleased. "Only 85 pitches. You got to give the guy one more inning."
Roberto Montaño puts the Badgers down in the seventh, but Kalamazoo gets to Danny Bentley in the eighth on a walk, an Álex Martínez triple and a Collins homer. I'm glad to see the homer, really, and so is Don-o. Collins is a class act, a steady ballplayer who brings his lunch pail to work every day. Both he and Bentley are getting along in years. You can see the age on Bentley more than you can on Collins – a testament to pure skills, with perhaps a tip of the cap to work ethic.
This is all the Badgers are going to get, though. Walker brings closer Raúl Pinto into the game in the ninth, and he nails down his 14th save. Fargo wins 5-3.
We sit in Jurassic park for the next thirty minutes, eating nachos and jalapeños and watching fans filter out. A panel of lights is doused and the ground crew gets the tarp rolled out over the infield. This is it. We both know it. We can't afford to go to London, and our next leg is the road back to Duluth. It's a short hop; just five hours if you get traffic. It's been two months since we left town.
I don't have anything left in me. No words. Nothing. I look at the field of green with its white lines stretching out like boundaries into the future. I don't look at Don-o because I don't think I can manage it right at that moment. We both move to get up at the same moment, though, and I glace at Don-o to see him looking at me.
"Hella game, eh?" Don-o says.
"Yeah," I agree. "Hella game."