I went to the wrong game. Last night, in addition to stealing two bases, Shohei Ohtani hit his 49th and 50th home runs of the season - becoming the first player in major league history to steal 50 bases and hit 50 home runs in one season - and then, for good measure, hit his 51st home run. He went 6 for 6 and drove in 10 runs in the Dodgers 20-4 win over the Marlins.
I should have known Ohtani would set the record here. For it was in loanDepot Park that, last year, he struck out Mike Trout to win the World Baseball Classic for Japan. Oh yes, for those of you not into baseball, the amazing hitter is also an incredible pitcher.
My first 2024 visit to see the Marlins was prompted by the visiting Dodgers, their superstar Shohei Ohtani, and the prospect of witnessing baseball history. Ohtani came into last night's game with 48 home runs and the same number of stolen bases, on the verge of becoming the first player ever to get 50 of each.
He led off the game with a single, promptly stole second (#49), and sprinted to third on the errant throw. This I learned later, as my friend Mark and I were stuck in traffic. Never underestimate the desire of people to witness history.
In his next four at-bats, Ohtani failed to reach base, striking out twice, once while looking. This was a huge disappointment to the fans, many of whom wore Dodgers caps. But even Marlins fans, I suspect, were looking for something to celebrate in a very dismal season.
My solace came at the end of the sixth inning when, on my way to buy my beloved arepa, I spotted a new stand selling Asian food. I passed on the bao buns holding miniature hot dogs – though they looked very cute – and got bao buns stuffed with pork. They were excellent.
The NFL season has begun. It’s been hard for me to take football seriously after realizing a few years ago that the players are wearing shorts. Take a look: Their pants end above their knees. In the old days, pants came down to above the calf, so that pads could protect the knees. I have no idea when or why that changed.
I was in Chicago on Sunday and the place I ate lunch had numerous TVs tuned to the Bears game. I looked up and saw a man in shorts tackle another man in shorts very close to the line of scrimmage. The man who made the tackle jumped up and, with puffed out chest, ran a few yards into the other team’s backfield, celebrating his accomplishment. And I thought: You just made a tackle, the thing that you are paid to do; why are you demonstrably gloating about it? I don’t get up and run a victory lap around my office every time I write a sentence.
Shelby Rogers played her last U.S. Open match last night, losing to Jessica Pegula 4-6, 3-6. She became one of my favorite players a few years ago at the Open when she beat then #1 Ash Barty and in the post-match interview was asked how she had done it. She said something about taking it point by point and then apologized, saying “That’s such a cliché.”
About a year later I was sitting in the lobby of the Warsaw Marriott, waiting to meet someone, and I noticed a blond woman with a tennis bag over her shoulder checking in. As she headed to the elevator, I noticed it was Shelby Rogers. I followed her and introduced myself, and then told her how impressed I had been by her sensitivity to language. I explained that I was writer. I asked her what she was doing in Warsaw, and she said she was on her way to a tournament in Latvia, and that her coach was Polish. I told her my wife was Polish (so we sort of had something in common). Then I let her get on her elevator.
In a year when the Miami Marlins are bad and the Tampa Bay Rays mediocre, it was a thrill to see the boys of Lake Mary come from behind yesterday and defeat Chinese Taipei in the Little League World Series. They became the first Florida team in history to claim the title of Little League champions.
I went to the Panthers victory parade on Sunday because I wanted a photo to post along with yesterday’s blog post and, like the man in the John Malcolm Brinnin essay “Travel and the Sense of Wonder,” I “like to see life happening.”
Hania dropped me off at the foot of the Intracoastal bridge on Sunrise, as at that point people on foot, many wearing red Panthers jerseys, were making better progress than those in cars. I walked to Riomar Street, the start of the parade, but at 8:15 not a lot was happening. I headed to El Vez and found a seat outside where I ate a plate of huevos rancheros. I figured I’d need some nourishment for the morning’s ordeal.
Back at Riomar, a bagpiper in a green plaid kilt and a black-and-green Panthers jersey was playing a tune by a parked car. Two drummers stood nearby; they were from the Coral Springs Fire & Rescue. More musicians, and people, gathered at the intersection, and then everyone dispersed as the heavens opened up. Many of us took shelter in the driveway of the Hilton, including a female drummer who told me several bands were marching. Hers, she said, had come up from Miami.
The rain let up and we wandered back to the intersection. Then more sheets were unleashed, and we raced back to the driveway. I charged my phone near a group of musicians whose armbands carried the name Palm Beach.
Eventually I worked my way, under cover, toward the front of the hotel, squeezing past a large potted plant whose purpose, clearly, was to keep me out. Outside Le Marché, I was told that I had entered a private party area, and politely asked to leave. I walked a few steps, in growing puddles, to a larger crowd waiting out the rain. Here I took pictures of two young men, in soaked Panthers jerseys, standing on the sea wall like sentinels. That, I thought would have to do.
But eventually the rain let up, and slowly, very slowly, buses rolled down A1A – first black-windowed coaches and then the big red double-deckers. I stood on the steps of the hotel portico, surrounded by a damp but cheerful crowd. On the step behind me, two Black teenage girls, in braces and cool wire-rim glasses, looked like they were getting a glimpse of Beyonce. A new bus appeared and the woman next to me yelled “Nick! Nick! Nick! Nick Cousins! He's our neighbor!” A few minutes later her husband appeared, his glasses speckled with raindrops. “I saw him look at you!” the woman shouted. “This is the happiest day of my life since we got married!”
Players threw beach balls into the crowd, which were then batted back. Some spectators tossed their cellphones up for players to take their pictures on. After obliging, the players let the phones drop back down.
Finally, the bus carrying the Stanley Cup appeared. Three players stood at the front in red “Conquered the Hunt” T-shirts: the one in the middle held the Cup high, the one on his left, Aleksander Barkov, help up his shoe (backdropped by the Finnish flag), the one on his right drank from his shoe. The blond woman standing next to Cousins’ neighbor asked, “Is that a thing in Finland?”
The other people on the bus had their cameras and smartphones pointed at the trio, creating a giddy Washington-crossing-the-Delaware tableau.
I wasn’t sure yet, but I figured I had my photo. And, even with the rain – heck, partly because of it – I had seen life happening.