Washinton baseball defined

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HD scoreboard bigger than the Beatles

As of last Sunday night, Washington DC baseball has a personality all its own. As with New York or LA, there is now such a thing as typical DC fan behavior and DC traditions. These are bestowed as the direct result of the new home for baseball. The definitions will of course become richer with time. The only thing more seismic than the opening of the new park is the media hype surrounding it.

In spite of the immense hoopla poured onto THE WASHINGTON NATIONALS HOME OPENER AT THE BRAND NEW NATIONALS STADIUM (!), I remained relatively low-key in the run-up. Nevertheless, finely-tuned Ellen anticipated the coming Sunday night game with the reflexes of a fly when the swatter is raised. Sunday morning, as well as Saturday night, she announced that she would be attending church services before we went anywhere. Even though the first pitch was set for 8:15 pm, she knew I would be winding-up to shoot off to DC as early as I could. She actually seemed relieved to hear that I only wanted to leave about six hours early.

After "dumping our child" (our child's words) with her big brother and Kelly, we set out to help make history. It was to be a night of firsts and I was mentally preparing. First stop light. First dead thing in the road. Happily for Ellen, I was able to keep these firsts unspoken. We arrived at RFK Stadium to board the NATS EXPRESS shuttle to the new stadium. RFK still had the banner on the front with the DC license plate that said GO NATS!. The place looked like an old dog when a puppy is brought into the house. So long, it's been good to know ya.

The shuttle bus was surprisingly efficient, promising a ten minute trip and getting us there is twelve. In spite of the tipsy, aging sorority girls behind us, the shuttle system was quite tolerable. This came as a pleasant surprise, since it was the first time the system was being used. We were expecting Much Worse.

When we walked to the first base entrance of the new park, we found our Much Worse. Since El Presidenté was throwing out the ceremonial first pitch, the Secret (Shhhh!) Service had implemented vise-grip style security. The 10,000 or so fans waiting to get in our entrance (one of four to the park) were sent through metal detectors, frisked (wooWOO!), and bag searched in much the same way TSA does at the airport. The hobbling difference was that Secret (SHHHH!) Service only had three (3) metal detectors and 5 (five) Special Agents in Charge tasked with this job. We stood in line for nearly two (2) hours, watching a few fans trickle up the steps and into the park after clearing the Secret (Shhhh!) Service security tent. Had the President's approval ratings been any lower, they probably would have just sent us all home.

. . . and they came out Star-Bellied Sneeches!

Once inside, we took no time to look at anything, except for one special sign, which made Ellen happier than a trombone player at an Omp-pah party:

The stadium is new. NEW new. Sure, it's really cool, but we both knew that there would be problems. But almost all shortcomings must be forgiven. Sure, the Italian sausage was terrible - I watched a thoroughly overwhelmed Grill Gal unwrap a dozen frozen sausages and plunk them onto the grill in one big sausage ice cube. Yes, the lines were long. Absolutely the elevators and escalators we had so anticipated were shut down by the Secret (Shhhh!) Service. This happens. We were the beta testers. This place was stiff like a new pair of Levi's. But the potential was equally apparent.

The new ballpark, Nationals Park, or whatever corporate name they eventually pin to it, feels like a place ready to contain history. In the coming decades, hundreds and even thousands of historical events will happen here. And this place, The Ballpark, is well suited for them.




When we arrived at our seats, it pains me to say, we were underwhelmed. The majesty and excitement was all around, but the seats themselves - the actual chairs - were crap. Made of blue plastic and surrounded by aluminum railing, they feel a little like sitting in a cage built by Fisher-Price. Their width was not terribly in sync with the American ass either. In fact, if one were blindfolded with their ears blocked, one could be convinced that they were sitting onboard an AirTran flight. The never-ending nasal droning of the Long Island couple behind us completed the illusion. "Ouuuuuuwwww, the new bawlpawk is soooo classy-eh!". Had we the chance to actually sit in the seats before the season, we would have been in the outfield. We may yet . . .

Nothing boxy about the press box

Just as I was working up to a full-on sulk it happened. Baseball. From out of the amazing new press suites strode Hall of Famer Don Sutton. He walked up to a microphone near home plate, wearing a designer tux.


"Now here's Little Miss Akron, singing, "You're Havin' My Baby" ...

He introduced the Atlanta Braves. Bobby Cox and Chipper Jones earned a smattering of boooooo's, but it was pro-wrestling-style booing. He introduced YOUR WASHINGTON NATIONALSSSSSSSSS and the crowd dropped into place as a part of the new park. The applause never faded. It was strongest for the two great guys who battled for the job of first basemen. Nick Johnson got the gig, but Dmitri Young has since shown no hard feelings by contributing to the big win in Philly on Monday night.


Please don't trade the Meathook. Ever.

Don Sutton then introduced the reason we were all forced to wait outside for hours, George W. Bush, President of the United States of America.

Now friends, DC's local media immediately reported a "mixed reception" for the President. The national press then parroted that, mostly. We knew they would. They reported Dick Cheney's ceremonial pitch in 2006 the same way, even though he was roundly booed. Cheney got booed, half for politics and 75% for his weak-ass pitch. Bush's pitch was very good. We watched 40,000 people pour real booing down on that guy. It was so intense and focused that it was startling. We've spent 8 years getting used to protests of any kind being pushed out of earshot and away from the cameras. To see such a consensus was a jolt. I went back later and watched the ESPN shot of the ceremonial pitch on YouTube, and I'm convinced the network dubbed in applause. The dissent was deafening.

While it was liberating to see all these normal folks showering an opinion similar to mine on him, it was also hard to watch. I thought of the 2001 World Series, when Bush marched out to the mound of Yankee Stadium. It was one month after the attacks, and he stood defiantly and threw that pitch so well. This time, he barely stopped running out to the mound before he was running back to the dugout. It was reminiscent of the end of the movie Ghost, when Carl Bruner gets killed by the giant shards of window glass and demons drag him below while Sam Wheat looks on broken heartedly but not at all surprised. Oh Carl. Oh George.

Here's my own Zapruderesque film of the President coming back to the dugout. Forget for a moment who this guy is and whatever that means to you and watch his hands.

The most important thing to him was not Manny Acta, or Zimm, or the Lerners, or anything else. It was that first-pitch baseball. I bet he values it more than anything any head of state every gave him. Kanye West had it half right; George W. Bush doesn't care about black people because George Bush doesn't care about most people. Only a sociopath could smile and wave while being so hated on. The thing is; George W. Bush cares about baseball. I might have booed as loudly as any other 10 people there, had we been anywhere else, but we were at a ballgame, and so was he. No politics allowed.

The game started, and you probably know the rest. Odalis Perez threw he first pitch for a strike - along with his second - and struck out the First Batter Ever at Nat's Park.
Cristian Guzman put his bat on the Very First Pitch from Tim Hudson, leading off with a single and later scoring the First Run Ever.




Props to Chipper Jones, who dropped a tater onto the Porch, producing the First Homerun Ever, and meanwhile drawing full attention to The Red Porch. It will surely become Washington's very own trademark, just as the Green monster belongs to Boston and that giant Coke bottle belongs to Atlanta. Original plans for the park had a giant spinning baseball atop the porch, but it was canceled due to time and money constraints. Also, someone probably remembered that this ain't Minute Maid® Park.

http://nats320.blogspot.com/2008/03/red-porch.html

Sure, Chipper's hit was nice, but The Red Porch galloped into legendary status in the bottom of the ninth with two out and a 2-2 tie. That's when Ryan Zimmerman beaned one of his own up there, winning the game and the hearts and minds of DC fans of every stripe.

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The Big Giant Head

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Atlanta
0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 (2 5 1)
Washington
2 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 (3 4 1)



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