Daily Log of a Fresh-faced Graduate
April 8, 2013

She was in section 212, row 7, seat 102, and she was overflowing with awesome.  A bang of her short hair fell across her face, dark and just short of red.  Her face was thin, her frame probably 5’7″.  Maybe 21.  She wore a Travis Cruz jersey and a pair of Dollar Store sunglasses perched on the top of her forehead.  It was about 5:30 in the afternoon and the Kentucky Thoroughbreds were taking batting practice.  It was a sunny, clear day, though still under 60°.  The sound of bat on ball rang out across the field, followed by “oohs” and “ahs”, but all I saw was the version of female perfection sitting with one sandaled foot over the seat in front of her.

“Are you okay?” Don-o says.

“What’s that?” I reply.

We’ve just arrived at Churchill 1, where the Thoroughbreds are preparing to take on the London Underground.  Don-o is holding his beer in one hand and a bag of peanuts in the other.  He’s a bit road-weary from the Greyhound ride and has that dopey grin on his face that gets when he’s tired.  Our seats are on the second deck, along the third base line.

“You look like a zombie.”

I glanced at her, and Don-o followed my gaze.

“Oh,” he says.

I know I can’t wriggle out of this one.  “She’s incredible.”

“Not better than those two at Studio 21.”

But Don-o is wrong.  This girl is different.  Yeah, I’ll be the first to admit she’s not the statuesque model type, nor is she glam actress awesome.  No, her awesome is something bigger than that.  Don’t get me wrong.  She is a babe and a third, but her look is just… well… as wonderful and gorgeous as a 12-6 curveball and as startling as an inside the park homer.  That good.

“Okay,” he says, looking at the girl’s friend.  She’s blonde and certainly interesting enough.  “I can do that.  Let’s go.”

I realize I’m not actually ready for this, but Don-o’s up and walking toward them before I can stop him.

Rod Young steps to the plate as we draw near the girls.  His first swing is a line drive that bounces off the wall in right-center.

“Hey,” Don-o says, standing over them.

The girls squint up at him, shading their eyes from a sun that sits lows in the sky.  If it’s possible, The Girl looks even better with her nose crinkled and her eyes squinted.

“Hey,” says the blonde beside her.

“You two look like you could use a little company.  Do you mind if we sit here for BP?”

The two exchange glances, and I can see communication as complex as a third base coach’s signals.  I don’t read female, though, so I’m just left to feel my chest convulse as we wait for the answer.

“It’s a free country,” the blonde says.

Don-o goes down a row and takes the seat in front of the blonde and one to the side so he can sit at an angle and see them both.  I follow him and do the same, but I’m one seat in front of The Girl.

Young sends one over the left field fence.

Don-o introduces himself, and we find out the blonde is named Belinda.

“I’m Mezzy,” The girl says, and suddenly I find that Mezzy is, like… The.  Most.  Perfect.  Name.  Ever.

“I’m Casey,” I say to her.

She smiles.  “Cute.  Like Casey at the Bat.”

“Exactly.”  I was named after someone else, but she doesn’t need to know that.  I’m feeling better now, though.  Words are flowing over the tongue and I can actually process thought. Her awesome, though, is even stronger up close.  She has three very light freckles on her right cheek that are absolutely stunning.

“I hear Casey struck out,” she says.

“Ouch.”  I wait a moment.  “You a big Travis Cruz fan, I take it?”

“You could say that.”

“He’s good,” I say.  “But Kohler is probably better.”

The Travis Cruz/Lee Kohler debate is a hot one for all the sports call-in shows.  They are the wave of the future at shortstop (Cruz is 23; Kohler is 22).  Both are magical fielders with limited bats.  Cruz nabbed the All-Leather Award as a 21-year-old rookie in 2011, with Kohler taking it away in 2012.  Kohler is probably the whole package, though, so he gets my vote.

“Not really,” she replies.  “Kohler’s OPS was only .669, not exactly Pat Lilly.”

“Cruz’s VORP has never been over 2,” I chide, but inside I’m boggling to think this absolute goddess knows what Lee Kohler’s OPS was last season.

She nods, watching the field.  “But Cruz has a much better QPR.”

“QPR?”

Belinda answers.  “Qutie Pie Ratio.”

“Ah,” I reply.  Not sure where to go next.  Mezzy just smiles with fiendish relish.

On the field, Young grounds one to short.

“Where you from?” The Girl asks me.

I grin, spread my arms, and launch into the epic story of two guys unfairly chased onto a fishing trawler by Guido and Jock, of an adventure over the high seas of Lake Superior made more awesome by a little outside helper, and of a three-hour Greyhound tour that stranded us on this little green island in Lexington.

#

By the time the game starts, the sun is setting and it’s gotten cooler.  Mezzy and Belinda are fine in their heavy jerseys, but I put on my jacket.  The game is nearly a sell-out, but there are quite a few no-shows.  As luck would have it, the seats below Belinda and Mezzy are left vacant.

Vincente Maestas takes the mound, and Mezzy’s demeanor changes.  Kien-lung Hsiao digs in, and she leans forward, and stares out at the mound.  “Start him with the curve,” she says, her voice low.  Maestas drops a curve low and on the corner for a called strike.  Hsiao is a solid hitter, without much power.  “Don’t be afraid of him; fastball up.”  Hsiao takes a slider wide of the plate.  She grimaces.  “Seriously, dude.  Fastball up and in.  Put him on his seat.”  Maestas next pitch is a heater, but he misses low and away.  “Crap,” she says, and is even more upset when the London shortstop takes the next pitch deep to left for a one-run lead.

I reach up to console her by patting her on the knee, something I’ve done three glorious times in our pre-game conversation.

“Get your sticky-beer hands off me, or I’m calling security,” she says.

I look at Belinda, and she shrugs her shoulders as if to say I should have known better.

It doesn’t get any better when Decheng Wen singles, but Maestas gets a grounder to the first baseman, a fly-out and a swinging K to end the inning.

“Twenty-one pitches,” Mezzy says, shaking her head.

#

The next couple innings are a bit of a haze.  The Thoroughbreds pick up a run on an error and a Jamie Boyd double.  Boyd eventually gets himself thrown out at home trying to score on a Carlos Féliz base hit.  (Aside, if we weren’t in the company of the girls, you know for sure that Don-o woulda done his standard “Pull My Finger” bit when Féliz was called.)  Mezzy’s dark cloud grew bigger when her boy Cruz struck out swinging.

While she’s sulking, I take a little time to recall what I’ve learned about Mezzy.  She going to school at NKU and majoring in economics.  She grew up in Louisville and plans to leave the state when she’s done but has no idea where she wants to be. She likes lots of strange things that don’t always seem to match: Alicia Keys, Radiohead and acoustic guitar blues.  Her dad owns a construction company and buys season tickets, but rarely – thank God – uses them.

And she knows her Kentucky Thoroughbreds.  I had asked her what she thought about the ‘Breds chances this year and received the most glorious 30-minute lecture I’ve ever heard.  Admittedly, it’s hard to not like the franchise.  It’s a small market team taking on the big guys.  They won 85 games last year, and the expectations are high for 2013.  They are 5-2 to open the season, and ticket sales are looking pretty brisk.  Their pitching is good-not-great, but they have four guys who can win some games and an offense that is built around young guys like Féliz (26 years old), Cruz (23), Boyd (25), José Morán (25) and Rich Cunningham (23) who should be growing into their roles.  In addition, their two best prospects are looking quite beastly in AAA.

It’s hard to root against a grow-your-own franchise, especially when it’s April and you’re sitting in a gorgeous ballpark near a girl named Mezzy who is all sorts of remarkable.

#

The bottom of the third sees Cunningham launch a three-run homer to give the Thoroughbreds a 5-1 lead that they won’t relinquish again.  Maestas has settled down and will eventually finish 8 innings in 98 pitches.  Kentucky adds two more in the 6^th, and even though London gets a 9^th inning run on a monster shot off Dennis Carter‘s bat, it’s nowhere near enough.  Kentucky wins it 7-2, and all is well with Mezzy even though Travis Cruz was 0-4 with a pair of Ks.

#

Don-o is obviously doing his thing with Belinda, and I’m feeling good about Mezzy.

“So,” I say as the girls are standing up to leave.  “Want to go grab a burger and a beer?”

Mezzy looks at me as if she might say yes.  Then she shakes her head.  “No, I don’t think so.”

I’m, admittedly a bit stunned.  “I thought…” I stammer, feeling the rush of blood to my cheeks and forehead.

“You seem like a cool kind of guy, Casey, and you know your baseball, so that’s all good.  But I don’t go out with drugies.”

And with that, they are gone.  The Awesome Has Left the Building.

The scoreboard reads 7-2, but there is no joy in Mudville, for Casey, mighty Casey, has surely struck out.