Baseball in Tacoma
A view from the uphill side of the net in Cheney Stadium, home of the AAA Tacoma,Washington, Rainiers.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Yeah, him and Ricky Henderson!Owen Huelsbeck sends this snapshot of him in action:
"Just wanted to show you a picture of me on third base, about to steal home!"
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Two antiquesI went to the open house at Cheney Stadium yesterday. I couldn't find where I had stashed my Rainiers or Mariners caps last fall. But I did come across this Tacoma Yankees hat, which I believe is from 1978. As a general-news reporter for The Tacoma News Tribune that year, I was supposed to interview Yankees manager Billy Martin when he was in town for a fishing trip with his son. We caught up with him at the Point Defiance Boathouse. The kid had caught a salmon half his own size. Mr. Martin was off by himself amid the stacked rental boats, head down, hands in his back pockets, not even looking out at the water. I didn't follow sports, much less the Yankees, but I was aware that he was having his problems with Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, among other things. I hated to interrupt him. I asked him one of those vaccuous "how do you feel about . . . ?" questions about his son's good luck, and he mumbled something about "very proud . . . great kid . . ." End of interview. We took a picture of the boy with his fish and published it the next day.
Maybe they should have sent a sports reporter. It was only a photo caption, anyway.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Reindeer Meat
The Tacoma Rainiers we've known since we've had season tickets have been owned by a Mr. Foster, who we are told raises chickens. We are grateful that Mr. Foster, while hoping to get out from under the ownership of this minor-league club, has chosen not to sell it to someone who will spirit it out of town, to, say, Portland, or Everett. Yet.
However, we are puzzled by his lack of interest in the team name, or its mascot. Our recollection is that the Rainiers once were the property of a Seattle brewery, and named for their product. We'd have thought an appropriate mascot would have been one of those prancing bottles we used to see in the Rainier ads. But a contest among fans resulted in their mascot being a reindeer. (Heck, it's not even spelled the same! "Raindeer" would have been more appropriate for any team in the Pacific Northwest.)
When Mr. Foster bought the team, why didn't he rename it? The Tacoma Foster Farmers? Why not? Isn't this a farm club, after all? The mascot could wear coveralls, say, and wave this big foam pitchfork. And these big, oversized brogans, that he could always be scraping on a concrete step, as if he's cleaning something off that he just stepped in.
How about the Tacoma Fryers? Or the Chickens? (Hey, is that why we have the Fun Squad doing the Chicken Dance every other inning? Maybe Mr. Foster is watching the game!)
Well, we've sort of grown fond of Rudoph the Reindeer at every game. Like the team's name, Rudolph is the only mascot we've ever known.
But we have one thing we'd like to call to Mr. Foster's attention. To the best of our knowledge, Foster Farms raises chickens. Not cows. Not pigs. So why doesn't the snack bar serve anything other than those overpriced, oversteamed hot dogs? Why not chicken?
Maybe it's because Reindeer Meat leaves no bones.
Season Tickets
Rainy days like today make me want to call Tim Eyeman and see if he'll circulate an initiative for a domed Cheney Stadium.
I'm haunted by the prospect of spending my April evenings moving ever up and back in Section H, seeking a dry seat, while watching the grounds crew rolling out the tarps, again and again.
Nevertheless, one of last season's most memorable evenings, for me, was of an April game eventually called in the fourth inning because of rain.
It was surreal. The dugouts were empty, except for an umpire, a groundskeeper and manager Dan Rohn. The tarps had been spread on the field for the second time. Puddles of water rippled in their folds, reflecting the stadium lights. After a time, families with children left. "School night," one woman explained. Young couples went in search of a warm bar, perhaps, maybe one with the Mariners game on cable. Then there were almost none.
The cheap seats on the wings emptied. Those diehard fans who elected to stay moved over and up under cover.
Some bonding-dad's toddler tossed a foam-filled baseball up the seats, then waddled after it, over and over. His old man never noticed. A guy near me said, "If I get my hands on the ball or the kid, either one, I'm tossing them over the dugout!"
The ushers made periodic trips to assure us the umps were keeping an eye on the weather radar. One confided that they wouldn't call the game for at least an hour. The drizzle increased.
Clare, the usher whose dugout-top dances guarantee a win, brought out an umbrella. As the speakers played "Singing in the Rain," Clare pranced up and down the stairs, brandishing his bumbershoot. The miniscule "crowd" sang, "Duh-dee-dut-dee-duh-dut, duh-dee-dut-dee-dut-dut!"
We gravitated toward a cluster of regulars, half-a-dozen guys and one woman who can name every manager and pitching coach of every Cheney Triple-A team, and A-Rod's batting average every year in Tacoma. They talked about the prospects of tonight's players, and of the Mariners. We had nothing to contribute, being almost new to Cheney and having grown up considering baseball a participatory, not a spectator, sport. (Color us dumb.)
The picture they painted seemed to be one of continuity, an unending stream of minor-league players swimming upstream from the bush leagues toward the majors. (Most never make it. Of those who reach The Bigs, most slip downstream after a short time and then out of the water.) They talked about not only the players, but the coaches, the ushers, the security people. Some of these, too, strive to swim upstream. Sometimes, one of them makes it up and over the falls.
Somebody came up the wet steps and passed around a tray of the last of the cocoa from the last refreshment booth still open. A few more diehards left. For us, hanging in there became a matter of principle, of loyalty, of simple curiosity to see what happens when a game is called for rain.
Finally, the big lights were turned off. Within minutes, the regulars had left the park.
Rainy days like today make me want to call Tim Eyeman and see if he'll circulate an initiative for a domed Cheney Stadium.
I'm haunted by the prospect of spending my April evenings moving ever up and back in Section H, seeking a dry seat, while watching the grounds crew rolling out the tarps, again and again.
Nevertheless, one of last season's most memorable evenings, for me, was of an April game eventually called in the fourth inning because of rain.
It was surreal. The dugouts were empty, except for an umpire, a groundskeeper and manager Dan Rohn. The tarps had been spread on the field for the second time. Puddles of water rippled in their folds, reflecting the stadium lights. After a time, families with children left. "School night," one woman explained. Young couples went in search of a warm bar, perhaps, maybe one with the Mariners game on cable. Then there were almost none.
The cheap seats on the wings emptied. Those diehard fans who elected to stay moved over and up under cover.
Some bonding-dad's toddler tossed a foam-filled baseball up the seats, then waddled after it, over and over. His old man never noticed. A guy near me said, "If I get my hands on the ball or the kid, either one, I'm tossing them over the dugout!"
The ushers made periodic trips to assure us the umps were keeping an eye on the weather radar. One confided that they wouldn't call the game for at least an hour. The drizzle increased.
Clare, the usher whose dugout-top dances guarantee a win, brought out an umbrella. As the speakers played "Singing in the Rain," Clare pranced up and down the stairs, brandishing his bumbershoot. The miniscule "crowd" sang, "Duh-dee-dut-dee-duh-dut, duh-dee-dut-dee-dut-dut!"
We gravitated toward a cluster of regulars, half-a-dozen guys and one woman who can name every manager and pitching coach of every Cheney Triple-A team, and A-Rod's batting average every year in Tacoma. They talked about the prospects of tonight's players, and of the Mariners. We had nothing to contribute, being almost new to Cheney and having grown up considering baseball a participatory, not a spectator, sport. (Color us dumb.)
The picture they painted seemed to be one of continuity, an unending stream of minor-league players swimming upstream from the bush leagues toward the majors. (Most never make it. Of those who reach The Bigs, most slip downstream after a short time and then out of the water.) They talked about not only the players, but the coaches, the ushers, the security people. Some of these, too, strive to swim upstream. Sometimes, one of them makes it up and over the falls.
Somebody came up the wet steps and passed around a tray of the last of the cocoa from the last refreshment booth still open. A few more diehards left. For us, hanging in there became a matter of principle, of loyalty, of simple curiosity to see what happens when a game is called for rain.
Finally, the big lights were turned off. Within minutes, the regulars had left the park.
