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Braves Home Opener: Dispatch From the Front

by Christopher McIntosh
04/13/2006

April 12, 2006--Atlanta

Sensory overload.

It’s about the best way I can describe the actual experience of attending the 2006 Braves home opener. Which is unsurprising given that it took place at a stadium named after Ted Turner, the man who brought us 24 hour news channels, colorized movies like Gone With the Wind, captained our America’s Cup team, and married Hanoi Jane.

Walking into the park was nothing short of overwhelming. Even with our own parking spot we still had to walk about a mile to the gate taking us (along with thousands of others) past tents selling what can only charitably be described as "unauthorized" Braves merchandise, kids whose idea of advertising was to scream in a high pitched voice, "WA-TER, BO-TTLED WA-TER!," and an obscene number of attractive women dressed in Braves gear of all types. There was also an outbreak of shorty-shorts that reached epidemic proportions--CDC researchers were feverishly gathering data to prevent future outbreaks.

About a hundred yards from the Aaron gate, we stumbled across the "Lexus parking lot". Baffling. Especially when juxtaposed with the rest of the scene, it was truly baffling. We eventually deduced that the "Lexus parking lot" was exactly what it sounded like, a parking lot reserved exclusively for those who drive Lexuses (or is it Lexi?). Which raised a slew of questions: Do you have to pay for a permit or is there a doorman who checks your hood ornament and either lifts the velvet rope or sends you back into the unwashed masses? Is this limited to certain drivers or all drivers of Lexuses? Do the people who park in this lot have any idea that we’re taking down license plates and realize that when the revolution comes they’re going to be the first up against the wall?

When finally loosed from the throngs, we entered through the gate and were promptly stunned into silence--it was like walking into some bizarre version of Disneyworld on HGH, the clear, and acid. (I realize that last part is redundant--all versions of Disneyworld look as if they were designed by someone on acid). A seven foot tall Scooby Doo was the first "person" to greet us. I’m certain this was not a hallucination (I think). Within fifty feet of us were approximately fifteen hundred of our closest friends, no less than twelve restaurants including the Chop House and Skip and Pete’s Barbeque, and a set of twelve televisions that looked like an outdoor OTB for baseball. The estimated level of background noise--85 decibels. Front row at a Metallica concert--100-110.

Of course, I forgot to mention the fireworks going off about a hundred feet over our head. They were shot out of a giant Coke bottle. Somehow this didn’t seem strange. Meanwhile from our position directly behind the scoreboard we could hear the pre-game introductions and pageantry celebrating the 40th year of Atlanta Braves baseball. It was quite detailed and well done.

Not a good sign for those who believe we can win number fifteen. There’s an inverse relationship between the intensity of nostalgia and content with the present, as anyone who’s been on the wrong end of a relationship can attest. While I’m not ready to begin the typical inoculation measures, I am stockpiling supplies. My local liquor store is pleased.

And this was all before the game started and we had even begun to figure out which way to go to find our seats.

Given the tactical environment we chose to use Special Forces hand signals to maneuver our way to our seats. Luckily our mission was successful, as we encountered little to no resistance, although along the way we believe we identified a number of Al Qaeda operatives whom we plan to report directly to Homeland Security. Of course we may have just gotten a little overzealous with our martial methodology for finding our seats. Given that a third of our platoon has spent the past months attending a gun range that allows him to fire automatic weaponry at targets of Osama Bin Laden, it’s not all that surprising.

One of those statements is not true. And it’s not the one you think.

Luckily we found our seats without having to engage enemy forces.

Just when I thought we had avoided conflict, upon sitting down in my seat I realized that I had unwittingly stumbled into the first stages of the war to end all wars.

Despite the fact that I had flown into Atlanta for precisely this game and that my beloved mother had given me these tickets over four months ago and despite the fact that I have consumed upwards of a metric ton of chicken from Chick Fil-A over the course of my life, my stomach chose my decision to lunch on Chick Fil-A sandwiches as justification for launching its own version of the Tet Offensive.

I have subjected my stomach to combinations of food and drink that clearly should have provoked attack in the past (including one disastrous night of South Asian vegetarian food, a substantial amount of Scotch, and the smoking of multiple cigars), but for some reason my stomach decided Monday was the day it had had enough.

It was D-Day and I was playing the German army. When it comes to these issues I’m not exactly Himmel, if you catch my drift.

One question remained. How long could I withstand the gastrointestinal war of attrition? While the attack didn’t render the baseball game a secondary concern, it certainly relegated it to the second front in a two front war.

****

What I learned on my Braves vacation.

--The Braves continued their impersonation of the 2005 Red Sox--scoring runs in bunches while conceding runs in similar fashion. Even Andruw Jones’ has gotten in on the act through his stunningly good impression of Manny Ramirez. The Gold Glover (widely acknowledged as the best defensive center fielder of the past twenty five years) has now dropped one fly ball and nearly dropped another, all while hitting home runs and driving in runs at a Manny-esque pace. Thankfully, the Braves have been scoring runs like a beer-league softball team, which in previous years would have resulted in the Braves beginning the season undefeated stimulating (premature) talk of whether or not this could be the year we finally break through and win it all. Or at least a playoff series. Unfortunately, the pitching staff has taken the offense’s lead and mimicked a bad AL squad. We have yet to see a quality start from any pitcher. Our number three starter, Horacio Ramirez, is already injured. Hudson and Smoltz have not looked like their All-Star and Cy Young winning selves and I refuse to even speak about the bullpen. My mother gave me the tickets and in deference to her I will follow her advice--if I have nothing nice to say, then it’s better to say nothing at all. Given that caveat, herein lies my current thoughts on the bullpen’s 2006 performance.

"……"

What scared me most of all was the fact that Thomson’s start on Opening Day was by far the best pitching performance of the year. Even in my weakened state he appeared eminently touchable and but for a few key strikeouts his strong five innings would have mirrored the rest of the starting rotation’s efforts. I estimated he would have given up about four or five runs if not for a couple of defensive stops and the aforementioned strikeouts.

On top of all this was the 800 pound gorilla in the room--the status of Chipper’s knee. I watched multiple replays of the injury and if I hadn’t been sick already I definitely would have been feeling queasy. I have too much personal experience with serious knee injuries. My dad has approximately 18 total inches of scars on his knee from tearing his ACL, I’ve done it myself, and have even had to watch it happen in front of me more than a few times. After watching the replays I was 90% certain he’d snapped it. I’ve seen cleats catch in exactly the same way his did. At least twice it resulted in the season-ending tear. Thankfully, as I discovered later, this time it didn’t. Strangely, the fact that he twisted his ankle in the process may have saved his (and by extension, the Braves’) season. If his ankle doesn’t give way it leaves only his knee to absorb the twist and there’s little chance it would have remained just a sprain.

All that being said, with regards to the pitching staff I’m not ready to lay the pitching problems at the feet of Roger McDowell, even though it appears as if the pitching staff spent its entire stint in Florida chasing afternoons at the golf course with a trip to Hooters. According to the Braves website the team ERA last year was only sixth in the league and Mazzone of all people was certainly in a position to realize that the Braves pitching tech bubble was about to burst. Maybe he pulled the typical CEO move of jumping ship on an apparently successful company that is on the verge of collapse. Which would make the current situation no reflection on McDowell, but unfortunately for the fans, no less worrisome.

That’s the dark side of the equation. The glass half full view is that we are scoring runs in ways that we never could have expected prior to the season. We have averaged seven runs per game and yet are only 4-5. That’s disappointing, but potentially a great sign for things to come. There is no way Hudson and Smoltz are going to continue their mediocrity as the season goes on. Sosa’s stuff is too good for him to win less than 12-15 games (presuming the bullpen doesn’t turn him into a poor man’s Randy Johnson).

Our reliever’s have yet to show any confidence, but that is not impossible to regain. If they can get even a little of it back, things should turn around. If the Braves offense continues to score runs in bunches, starters and relievers alike will be able to relax and be more aggressive knowing that they won’t have to win every game 3-2 or 4-3. Plus, on the offensive side, Jeff Francouer is hitting an abysmal .063--he’s just too good of an athlete for that to continue to be the case. Although if he refuses to recognize that patience plays *some* role in professional hitting he might just remain mired in the depths of hitting despair and drive Terry Pendleton to drink.

--It may seem like a small thing, but by being at the game I got to experience the full on pre-game national anthem/color guard/pre-game nationalist rituatls in living color. They were dead letter perfect. Edwin McCain sang the national anthem, which seemed a strange choice until he began. The late evening sun cast Summer-like shadows across the field while simultaneously illuminating the features of the ball field overlooked on TV--the rows in the outfield left by the mowers, the striking quality of a professionally manicured infield, and the lazy long toss of the outfielders waiting for the game to start, appearing as if they could still be in spring training on field ten at the Orlando complex.

Most importantly I was present for something that I have never seen before in my life and probably won’t ever again. There was an obligatory flyover by military aircraft (the Blue Angels I believe) during the national anthem, the one that every single event tries to time for the long note held at the end of the phrase "and the land of the free" but somehow always manages to mistime it. Which is fair, given that it requires to syncing an a capella singer with fighter jets who have to begin their run from miles away traveling hundreds of miles an hour. This time though, they absolutely nailed it. And for someone who is a bit ambivalent about non-reflexive public demonstrations of patriotism these days, I was more than a little impressed and proud to be an American.

There I said it. Al Qaeda come and get me. These colors don’t run.

--I deduced three other things from this game of note. I read a Rick Reilly column on the plane flight down that listed the unwritten rules in sports. I have two additions. One, no matter how silly the concept is, the first basemen *must* throw ground balls to each of the infielders between innings so that the other infielders can get "practice" fielding and "remain warm". Every baseball team does it, from the majors on down to little league and it seems just as superfluous to ten year olds as it does to guys who routinely turn hard line drives into outs and throw out batters with Ichiro level speed from deep in the hole. Two, when a pitcher hits a single, double, or home run that results in an RBI, someone (typically the announcer) must declare that the pitcher has "helped his cause" with (insert type of hit here). The third realization had nothing at all to do with the game and wasn’t even something that I uniquely figured out at the ballpark, but I mentioned it to my partners there and they declared it worth mentioning.

Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline" (oh oh oh…) is the Yankee Freebird.

****

Returning to the home front of the game within the game, let’s just say that the final score ended up being Chick Fil-A 2, Chris nil. I fought hard and valiantly to resist the insurgent campaign, but by the sixth inning it was time for retrenchment. I left my seat in the middle of the inning (an ENORMOUS no-no in my code of baseball fandom) to find a bathroom suitable for tactical retreat.

On a good day using a bathroom at a stadium of any sort is an exercise in selective observation. There are some things better left unnoticed. I unfortunately, was not experiencing anything approaching a good day and had to seek out something other than the bank of urinals along the walls. Thankfully I found an unoccupied vessel suitable to my needs, but I soon discovered its lack of occupation was due to its inability to rid itself of previous utilizers…um…deposits. At this point, much like Japan, I was between a rock and a hard place and felt committed to my strategy regardless of the ultimate outcome.

So I executed said strategy. And then executed it again. And again. I believe I became a bit of a spectacle as a kid at the end of my row searched me out in the bathroom and asked if I was all right. Given that he was about 12 years old and a decade and a half my junior I was both touched and scared. If a twelve year old thought I was in deep sh*t, it probably wasn’t a good sign.

So I returned to my seat, feeling as if my strategy was successful. Which it was, but unfortunately, as it turned out, my "strategic retreat" was ultimately unsustainable.

As an aside, when I returned to my seat I arrived with a diet coke that was too big for my smallish hands and (I later discovered) inexplicably laced with pepper flakes. Perfect for someone in my position. Nothing tastes better than pepper flakes lodged in the back of one’s throat. It also didn’t help that in climbing over a seat to get back to my row I made the rookie mistake of stepping on the wrong end of the seat, snapping it into it’s full upright and locked position, in the process rapping my shin with significant force. It was embarrassing, painful, and exactly what I was not looking for at the time. Although on a positive note my reflexes were quick enough that despite the screw up I managed not to drop or even spill my coke. On a more negative note, the yuppie women behind me who were ignoring the game to talk about the latest trends in shoe shopping found this uproariously funny.

(If you’re reading this, young ladies, I have a long memory, a short conscience, and a suggestion for you. You shouldn’t leave your wallets open long enough so that people in front of you can learn your name and address. Especially if you choose to mock them. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’)

Chick Fil-A tacked on an insurance run in the eighth as I found myself again needing to find a suitable location for strategic retreat. Luckily this time I found a more appealing (relatively speaking) location and eventually returned to my seat to watch the rest of the game.

But this is when I knew I had stemmed the bleeding, but ultimately lost the war. I chose, of my own volition, to leave the game in the middle of the ninth inning with the Braves stuck to a two run lead, which was an even BIGGER violation of my code of baseball fandom.

Our bullpen? Not so hot. A two run lead? As the Giants demonstrated last week, no lead is safe for these current Braves, even in the ninth inning. More to the point, in the past I may or may not have yelled obscene suggestions regarding anatomically impossible sexual acts at people who have left games early. I hate it. I tell anyone within earshot that this is why "they" hate us--regardless of who "they" are.

But on this day, the Braves home opener, I called the code in the middle of the ninth. Say good night, Gracie, I was out like the fat girl in dodgeball.

There was only one explanation.

Sensory overload.

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