August 17

Clara, the youngest, will have many adventures and achievements in her coming years. But forever and always, when she looks back on her life, she will have this: August 17, 2011, the day her dad took her to her first Major League Baseball Game.

The trip was really in honor of Olivia's 11th birthday, so she should get most of the press here. But it was Clara's first-ever MLB game, so that added to the specialness of the day.

Right over the top of Olivia's head there is grandpa, my dad. And my brother there on the other side of him. I got to figuring we've been going to Mariners' games for at least 3 decades now, so it was all the more poignant for them to be part of Olivia and Clara's day.

Here's Safeco Field on a sunny Seattle evening:

Really, for all the bad press Seattle gets about weather and such, there's no prettier place when the sun decides to come out. And almost no better place to enjoy it than sitting in the bleachers at the ball park.

Uncle Michael decided to buy the kids dessert.

Cotton Candy.

Dippin' Dots

As to the game. . .as I said, my dad and I have been doing this for 30+ years. And in all that time, the one certainty is the M's will lose more often than they win. And this was a normal night in that regard.

We showed up in time to kick a family out of our front-row seats (out in the left field bleachers) just before somebody sang O Canada (we were playing Toronto, and I think there were more Canadians there than Americans) and the National Anthem. Watched the first inning. Went to find hot dogs and fries. Came back and it was already 4-0 Toronto. And that was pretty much it. A little exciting later on when the M's loaded the bases with 1 out (the last guy got on when Brandon Morrow beaned Caspar Wells in the face with a fastball), but then Ichiro grounded into a double play, and that was it. Typical Mariners baseball.

But then again, a bad night at the ballpark is better than a good night sitting at home watching movies on netflix, so it was worth it. And to spend time with dad and Michael, and to celebrate Olivia's birthday and to take Clara to her first-ever professional baseball game, that was all wonderful.

Part of my childhood died today

Seven or eight years ago I was driving north from Fresno, headed up the 99 toward Turlock following a day at seminary. It was dark; the sun had long set, and I was scanning around the AM radio dial, wondering what I could pick up.

A baseball game came on, clear as day. For a few seconds I assumed it was out of the Bay Area, or maybe Fresno's minor league broadcast, it was that clear. But it slowly dawned on me that I knew the voice, I recognized the players. It was a broadcast of the Seattle Mariners, bouncing down my way across the atmosphere. It was the voice of Dave Niehaus. And suddenly, I was home.

I was that kid, going to M's games with my dad, brother, and sister, back in the days when you could park 1/2 a block from the Kingdome, when maybe 8,000 people showed up for the game, when it was fun, win or lose. A ship in the corner climbed out of its hole and fired a cannon shot with every home run. The floor would be littered with peanut shells and popcorn seeds. No-names ran the bases (well, they were big names to us, just not in the bigger picture of major league baseball).

But more often than not, we had the games on in the background at home. Dave Neihaus' voice filled our home, filled our summer nights. I just took him for granted, assuming he'd always been there.

During the eight years I spent in L.A., I only paid attention to the Mariners when they were down playing the Angels, or if they made it on TV (which they did during that amazing '95 season). But when we moved to Portland I found, to my delight, that they broadcast the M's games there. Many a summer day I was outside, working in the yard, and had Dave's voice to keep me company, to connect me to home.

Then there were those nights in Turlock. Once I discovered I could get the games, I listened every chance I got. Even there, in California, I could follow my beloved Mariners as if I were right there in Seattle.

Since moving back to the Puget Sound, I'm sure I've listened to 75% of the games each season (much to Karina's consternation, mind you). We don't have TV, so I turn the games on when I'm working around the house, or chopping firewood. Or driving home from Seattle. Or driving to the YMCA. Or anyplace else I'm near a radio. I can't tell you the times the girls have whined "Do we have to listen to baseball?" But of course we do. It's Dave. It's art. It's opera. Even as low as the M's have sunk in recent years, it was just comforting to have Dave's steady description of the game.

Last year somebody gave me a bottle opener. When you open a bottle it makes an electrical connection and plays one of Dave's famous calls, the Brett Boone "Grand Salami Time!" Olivia was playing it earlier today, over and over and over again. Then, tonight, Gene told me he'd heard Dave had passed away.

Truly, summer will be poorer without him. Baseball will be blander. The Mariners will simply stink (again). He was a connection to my past, to my family's past, to a Seattle that doesn't really exist anymore. To an innocent time when simply showing up to play was all that mattered. Wherever I went, it seemed Dave's voice brought me home again. I never met the man, but feel like I've lost a close friend. I suppose a lot of people are feeling the same way tonight.

And now, over to the sports desk

Last night, a group from Lakebay Community Church drove over to Tacoma to see the Rainiers take on the Colorado Springs Sky Sox in a battle of AAA baseball. It was my first time to see the Rainiers, and I believe my first AAA baseball game.

The Tacoma Rainiers are the AA affiliate of the Seattle Mariners. If you've been paying attention, the Mariners are having one of their worst seasons ever. And, among all their ineptness, two of their major downfalls have been 1)bad starting pitching, leading to too many huge deficits early on in games; and 2) not being able to score runners on base, thus leaving many runners stranded out there when the inning comes to an end.

Apparently, the little boys have learned from their big brothers. By the end of the second inning, the Rainiers were down 7-1, and eventually lost 9-2. And over the course of the game, the Rainiers left 10 men on base. Twice they had bases loaded with only one out, and failed to score a run. A couple other times they had men on base with no outs and failed to score a run. It was, by all accounts, an excellent exercise in futility.

Ah, well. It's always a fun night at the park, regardless of whether you win or lose. I was somewhat surprised at the sparse attendence - I think the park wasn't even 25% full. But our group had fun, and got to cheer when our name went up on the scoreboard (twice), we got to enjoy a warm summer night at the ballpark, and we even got a fireworks show - our eastern-facing seats gave us a front-row view of a thunderstorm moving in over Puyallup and Auburn. So while the Rainiers weren't lighting the park up much, we were able to sit back and watch the lightning show as it moved in. Which, by the second inning, was about all the drama we could expect.

Putting on the Sports Commentator Hat

Was it just me, or was that the most boring World Series ever? No offense to the Red Sox - they showed up and played. But as far as the whole series goes? It was about as exciting as watching the leaves fall off the maple in my backyard. Where was the drama? Where was the nail-biter finish? Where was the other team?

They were saying on the radio that of the 7 playoff series this year (division championships, league championship) something like 5 were sweeps. This was the 2nd-lowest rated World Series, as far as TV-ratings go (second only to last year's).

I listened to the games off and on as I happened to be around, but it all seems like a big yawner to me. And, apparently, to most of America. (most of America outside of New England and Colorado, that would be)

End of sports commentary

The Curse is Lifted, or , "I'd forgotten how good that felt"

I average 3-4 ballgames a year. When I lived in Ontario (California), we'd go catch the Mariners every time they came to play Anaheim, and if UW had a game at USC or UCLA, we'd be there. When we lived in Portland, we'd come up to Seattle a couple times a year to see the Mariners play. And when we lived in Turlock, we'd head over to Oakland, usually to see the M's play the A's, although I went to at least one A's vs. Rangers game. Last year, after moving to Seattle, we made it to Safeco near the end of the season for one game, and last Fall my brother got us tickets to see the Seahawks and the 49ers play at Qwest Field.

And why is all that important? Because, for over 10 years and all those games, EVERY SINGLE GAME I attended the team I was cheering for lost. I saw the M's when they had Griffey, when they won 116 games. I saw the Huskies when they had some good football teams. I saw the Seahawks one year after they went to the Super Bowl. And for over 10 years I ALWAYS went home disappointed.

Until yesterday. When Seattle beat the Red Sox 2-1 in the bottom of the 11th inning, when Jose Lopez hit a double that Manny Ramirez barely missed catching, sending Ichiro home from 1st. And for once I could leave feeling great about the game.

Add to that the 43,000 festive fans, a sunny afternoon at the park, a wonderful pitching gem, some tense moments of drama, some highlight-reel catches, spending a day with my dad and my oldest daughter, and the fact that it was the Red Sox and not some sucky team like the Rangers or Brewers. . .

It was a very good day, and a lovely way to lay that losing streak to rest.