Pitcher Perfect

It's been close to 50-years since my last visit to a Minor League baseball game. It was the Atlanta Crackers back in the 1950s.

I remember going with my dad to the old Ponce de Leon Ball Park on Memorial Drive across from Sears to watch what would one day be known as one of the best ever in the Minors.

Since that time I've stayed a fan of the game giving my heart to only three teams: the Pittsburgh Pirates because I played for the Pirates in Little League; the Braves because I was a fan of Hank Aaron and Milo Hamilton; and the Houston Astros because now I'm old enough to respect the talent and character of men such as Craig Biggio, Jeff Bagwell and Lance Berkman.

Recently, my wife and I took in a game at Dell Diamond in Round Rock, Texas, home of the Astro's Triple-A farm team, the Round Rock Express. Talents such as Houston pitcher Roy Oswalt, and outfielders Hunter Pence and Luke Scott have passed through that franchise on their way to the "bigs" in Houston.

The ball park was first class, a far cry from what I remember the Ponce de Leon park looking like near the end of its run. Turf to rival any major league field was surrounded by several thousand seats of green. Foul ball dinged brushed aluminum panels lined the walls of the upper deck, and there was seating for hundreds on the grassy outfield berms and in the glass-fronted box seats for fans with connections.

We paid a mind boggling $12.00 a ticket for two great seats behind the dugouts along the first base line. It was a perfect night for baseball in central Texas, and as the sun set one could feel the excitement; the excitement of small town baseball being played by young guys hoping to make their dreams come true.

Former Astros Jason Lane, Umberto Quintero and Matt Albers were in the line-up joined by a dugout full of fresh faces awaiting their chance to someday take the field at Minute Maid Park in Houston.

Sitting among hundreds of retirees, school kids, families and longhorns from the University of Texas, we had expected to have fun, but never to have become a part of Minor League baseball history.

The game was close as the Nashville Sound's pitcher Manny Parra pitched his game. Strike outs, ground outs, fly outs continued to mount, inning after inning until the last history-making pitch.

The local newspaper reported it like this: "ROUND ROCK - He's been good all season, but on Monday Manny Parra was perfect. The 24-year-old from Sacramento retired all 27 batters he faced in Nashville's 3-0 victory over Round Rock, completing the eighth perfect game in Pacific Coast League history in just his second Triple-A start."

In the bottom of the ninth Parra clearly had the Round Rock fans in his corner. With each pitch they cheered, with each out the anticipation grew . . . imagine, a perfect game. One out . . . it couldn't have been scripted any better. Two outs . . . everyone was on their feet shouting encouragement to an opposing pitcher. Then came the pitch to clinch the game. A pop-up to second base and it was done.

Parra leaped from the mound into a bear hug from his catcher as the rest of the Nashville Sound piled-on, bouncing in unison like some giant uniformed ball of caps and cleats. The cheers and applause of the appreciative Texans continued to grow as the celebration on the field went on.

At some point Parra realized that the fans of the Round Rock Express were not leaving, but were in fact giving him the sort of thunderous ovation normally reserved for a hometown hero. It was then that the true quality of a professional shown through. Manny Parra stepped out from among his teammates and raised his cap to the crowd in sincere appreciation.

There was jubilation between the bases and in the stands as the young pitcher shared his accomplishment with everyone at Dell Diamond that night, as as we walked to the car the last image that I saw on the giant screen in center field was Parra signing autographs for young wannabes with big league dreams of their own.

Congraulations Manny Parra. Never lose your enthusiasm for the game and appreciation of those who wish you well.

Rain, Rain, Go Away . . . But, Just For Now.

The Carpenters sang about it, Gene Kelly danced in it and as kids we recited a rhyme pleading with it to go away and come again some other day.

It's beginning to storm outside. Lightening followed by loud, rolling thunder has me thinking about similar days when I was young.

I still remember the first time that I realized rain could fall even when the sun was shining. I couldn't have been more than four-years-old. We were living in a red brick apartment on Confederate Court near Grant Park in Atlanta. I walked out the front door and stood beneath the porch cover with its black wrought-iron supports, while gripping my marbleized-plastic flintlock pistol and sporting a Davy Crockett coonskin cap. The sky was blue and sun shined brightly, but a quick dash into the nearby grass revealed the surprising truth . . . the Devil was beating his wife with a switch! That's what my mom told me. "When it rains while the sun is out," she said, "the Devil is beating his wife with a switch, and if you stick a needle into the ground you can hear it." I never tried. That Devil stuff always freaked me out as a kid.

Then there was the time after a real gully-washer that my dad took me into the backyard at our house on Beech Drive to catch worms. We found a nice, soggy patch of grass just beyond the back steps. He poured a bottle of vinegar over the lawn where we crouched and told me that the strong smelling liquid would force the slimy buggers to the surface. Then we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. It was getting close to dark when mom called us in for supper. The worms in our backyard had been spared to do what worms do another day.

My grandaddy Stuart was a carpenter by trade. He was a master with tools in his rough hands. The two best gifts that he ever made for me were a red soap box derby-style racer with the number 5 painted on the side, and a set of wood building blocks in a handmade wood tray. Our house sat beside a cement gully that was great fun on dry days, but was fast to fill with rushing water when the rains came. A young boy would have drowned in that gully one summer were it not for the quick action of our neighbor, Betty Dean. She was a hero that day and I have never forgotten.

Meanwhile, I was in my room overlooking that gully, having just witnesses the heroics of our neighbor. As I watched the water I wondered, "would my wooded blocks float like little boats on that rolling river?" I popped the screen on the window and began tossing squares and rectangles toward the flow. They did indeed float very well and within minutes were gone, except for the few triangles and arches that had fallen short. Mom wasn't happy and grandaddy Stuart never made replacements. Even after 50-years I am sometimes still saddened by the loss of those wooden blocks in such a silly way. But you know, kids do silly things.

There were the rained-out opening days of Little League, the soggy cancelled after-prom outing to Six Flags with Mallory Smith, and the hurricane-shortened trip to St. Augustine, Florida. We did make Marineland and the Alligator Farm before turning tail toward home.

I can remember ducking beneath the water while swimming at Glenwood Springs to keep from getting wet from raindrops . . . my logic was less developed then than now, though some may disagree. I can remember huddling under a tree with friends as a summer rain passed over head, and then shaking the lower branches to bring a second shower down on us all. And, I can remember walking home from Midway Elementary and smelling the fragrance of the rain floating in the air in advance of the storm.

As a grownup there are times when I see the rain as an inconvenience to my routine or a plan-buster, but then I think back to when the rain was such a thing of wonder and delight. Rain, rain go away, but, just for now . . . OK?

Code name: Grandpa

Code name: Grandpa. I was sent into combat this Memorial Day Weekend. It had been more than ten years since my last tour. More than ten years since I had fired a weapon at another man. More than ten years since returning home with whelps and bruises that stayed with me for days as a reminder of just how inept I would have been as a soldier. I played paint ball. The Survival Game of Texas.

A group of 18, much younger, men from work had signed up for the mission. The draft was not necessary. At their age the excitement of splattering marble-sized balls of yellow paint against opponents at 190 mph was all the incentive that they needed . . . "Oh yeah, this will be fun", they were thinking at enlistment. I was thinking, "Play smart and just don't break anything!"

On the way to the battleground I stopped at Waffle House for a hearty breakfast of cheese-eggs, grits, raisin toast and bacon, and a big orange juice. I needed my strength for was to come in the next few hours.

Above the densely wooded combat site was a gray sky filled with ominous looking clouds. The Houston humidity was high and nickel-sized mosquitoes took pot-shots at the exposed areas not covered in camo bought earlier in the week at the Army surplus store. The swamp-like ground was thick with deep ribbons of mud from days of heavy rain and smelled of stagnant water and decaying vegetation. Clusters of fire ants floated undisturbed in puddles awaiting an unsuspecting combatant. Their attacks on our teammates would come soon enough.

The first battle was in a rain created bog lined with plywood buildings facing each other across an open area of no more than 50-feet. Scattered throughout the field in between were stacks of old tires, sheet metal barricades and other spots to shoot from behind, hide behind, become trapped behind. Playing smart for an old guy, I chose to lay back behind a building and provide semi-automatic cover fire for those who didn't mind a smarting shot to the head, torso or groin . . . yes, that did happen.

The referee blew the whistle. Paint balls began screaming past, some hitting their mark while others smacked and splattered on the buildings and props around us. Shouts of "I'm out," or "They're coming around the left" filled the air for the next 15-minutes. Finally came the ref's whistle and welcomed call, "Game Over!". My orange team had won round one, I had popped a few slow moving targets from the other side, and I hadn't taken a single hit . . . Let's do this again!

So, for the next three hours we fought in the mud and among the trees, in a wooden castle and and a simulated southeast Asian village. We fought in a blinding thunderstorm for 45-minutes with goggles so filled with sweat and rain that we had our own player pinned down for ten minutes before realizing that he was on our side.

I continued to play smart, so unlike my previous bout with paint ball, my wound count was minimal. I took a stinging shot to the left hand . . . non-lethal, so I stayed in the game. I took a glancing shot to the top of the head . . . the paint ball didn't break, so I stayed in the game. I took a shot to the thigh . . . again, non-lethal. And, most embarrassing, I took a shot to the butt . . . it didn't break, so I stayed in the game to the livid protests of the shooter Code name: Rambo/Dumbo . I was one lucky paint baller this Memorial Day.

Team Orange took five of the seven matches, and Code name: Grandpa was there to help make it happen. Cheers to the Orange, and better luck next time to the black and blue battered members of the Team Yellow.