Green grass grows from Pipestone to Grand Marais. That means one thing: summer baseball in Minnesota.
Town ball. Legion ball. VFW ball. Little League. Believe it or not, Minnesota’s summer baseball legacy dates back farther than our state’s obsession with hockey.
Earlier this summer I volunteered as the public address announcer for a VFW baseball tournament. This meant closely watching seven baseball games in 30 hours, a personal record even for this parent of a baseball kid. It was so much baseball that I almost understand the infield fly rule. Almost.
The 49th Annual Grand Rapids Baseball Classic attracted teams of teenagers from across rural Minnesota. We know that the North Star State is geographically diverse. We’ve got farm country, mining towns, woodsy villages and gritty industrial cities — each identified by some distinct, over-proportioned anthropomorphic statue.
And yet, despite our differences, baseball ties it all together.
Now, I realize that sports aren’t for everyone. My own early attempts at athleticism resulted in several reliable anecdotes, but no discernible success. Nevertheless, I’ve always loved the sounds, sights and smells of baseball. So, today, I’ll share parts of the experience you won’t find in a sports page recap.
First of all, you might remember the line from the 1978 satire “Airplane,” where a flashback scene is interrupted by the announcement, “Pinch hitting for Pedro Borbon, Manny Mota.” Public address announcing is pretty much exactly that. You’re trying to say player’s names correctly, in a soothing way, without annoying people.
This philosophy reflects a great deal of personal progress. In high school, I was the P.A. announcer for basketball games. My career ended when I was fired during the national anthem for giving my friends funny nicknames during lineups. It took me almost 30 years to grow up, but I got there.
I wasn’t just calling names. I was also maintaining the scoreboard and playing the music between innings and during game breaks. It reminded me of my time as a live radio DJ back in the 1990s. The only difference was I had no downtime to smoke cigarettes while staring at the moon, wondering why I can’t get over that girl.
Speaking of music, if you want to watch moms born between 1978 and 1995 gyrate their fanny packs, play “In ‘da Club” by 50 Cent.
The dads are a different story. Looking at a crowd of fathers at a game is like watching a warehouse full of jack-in-the-boxes, only the “jack” is the projection of past glories and resentments upon the next generation. The best ones manage to keep it all inside.
Later, I saw a dad throw a foul ball back to the umpire. As he returned to his seat in the bleachers, he loudly stated that if he had only warmed up first, he would have thrown better. Over the course of several games, I watched dads from every corner of the state repeat this same ritual. Just as I was feeling particularly smug, I realized that the last time I threw a foul ball back to a player on field, I also lamented my inferior throw. Surely it would have been better had I prepared properly. Aging is funny to everyone but the aging.
Up in the announcer’s booth, I had to contend with a very angry chickadee. It occurred to me that small town ballparks are quiet places most of the time, a good place for birds to raise chicks. Only when the big tournament comes does a three-ring circus descend upon mom and her little ones, who need a nap, dammit.
At most small town airports, you’ll find a hangar with a plane inside owned by a contractor, a retired judge or perhaps a dermatologist. I don’t know what it is about having a plane that makes one want to buzz baseball games, but it’s like watching wasps swarm a pan of honey. I’m sure the game looks cool from the air, but it always makes me wonder if we’ll all end up on the news tonight.
I’ll never get tired of watching the field being refreshed between games. Local kids become wizards with rakes, tamps and chalk lines, all under the direction of one guy who knows EXACTLY how it’s supposed to look. No, not like that. Like THAT.
Around 9:50 p.m., with the ballpark lights blazing, the thin veneer of protection offered by mosquito repellant collapses. The winds calm and nature’s TIE Fighters roll in for the kill. Don’t bobble that last out, Johnny. We’ll all be bloodless husks if you don’t wrap this up soon.
Over seven games, I only saw one ugly incident where a fan started arguing with the umpire. No one’s perfect, fans or umpires alike, but these arguments just end up as self-righteous power struggles. In fact, the exchange only proved how stupid social media trolling looks when acted out in real life.
Mostly what I saw was more than 100 young men having a good time. Hundreds of coaches, umpires, volunteers and parents worked hard to support this tradition. This was action, not talk. When we dedicate this kind of energy to something, we create lasting community spirit.
Now batting … Number 16, or maybe 15, can’t tell … a gangly teenager who will forget the score but remember this day the rest of his life.
May we all.
Aaron J. Brown is an author and college instructor from northern Minnesota’s Iron Range. He writes the blog MinnesotaBrown.com and co-hosts the podcast “Power in the Wilderness” on Northern Community Radio. This piece first appeared in the Saturday, July 20 edition of the Mesabi Tribune.
We like our beer flat as can be; we like our dogs with mustard and relish.
Good stuff.