On our way home Saturday, to balance our visit to a historic downtown, we stopped in a modern, planned one: Abacoa in Jupiter. After finally finding a parking space – we’d passed a festival on our way in – we walked down leafy streets lined with three-story apartment houses, some of the residents sitting on their balconies. “Three stories is a good height for Florida,” Hania said, as we turned into a street that, one block in, turned pedestrian. Families and young people sat outside restaurants and breweries in a perfect New Urbanism tableau.
The crowds increased as we reached the park, which was hosting a Cajun Festival ($55 for entry). Across the street stood Roger Dean Stadium, and as we walked over to check it out I had the sensation I was in an idealized version of a big city, one that had taken the main attractions – main street, park, festival, ballpark – and put them all in close proximity. Adding to my delight was the sight of people in the concourse.
“What’s going on?” I shouted to a man walking with his son. “There’s a game,” he said. I had forgotten that Palm Beach County has minor league baseball. We purchased tickets – $10 for seniors – and walked into a sweetheart of a stadium. Rather than find our seats, we took two about eight rows behind the home team’s dugout, halfway between home and first. The Palm Beach Cardinals, I quickly discovered, were playing the St. Lucie Mets, and the Cards pitcher had an early no-hitter.
It had been a long time since I’d been to a ballgame (almost two years), and even longer since I’d been to one outside. A soft breeze made the temperature almost cool. And because of the small crowd, all the sounds were beautifully amplified: the ball landing in the catcher’s mitt, the chatter in Spanish from one of the Cards’ benchwarmers, the gentle razzing, from the two women behind us, of the Mets pitcher.
It didn’t matter that the division was Low-A, the lowest in the minors. It was an idyllic evening, made even more so by being unplanned. On the way out I bought a Jupiter Hammerheads cap and vowed to return this summer and see them play (they’re the Marlins affiliate), ideally against the Ft. Meyers Mighty Mussels.
Yesterday was the 90th birthday of Willie Mays, the oldest living Hall of Famer (as my cousin pointed out to me in an email). He was also the player who made me break from my family of Phillies fans and root for the San Francisco Giants when I was a boy. I have never loved an athlete the way I loved Willie Mays. He played the game with the talents of a superstar and the enthusiasm of a kid (his nickname was “the Say Hey Kid”), and the joy one got from watching him – even I suspect those rooting for the opposing teams – was in direct proportion to the joy with which he ran the bases (his cap flying theatrically off his head) and roamed the outfield. It was a joy that, for those familiar only with the modern game, is difficult to imagine.
It’s occurred to me that hospital admission forms might want to ask patients, in addition to their religion, if they’re interested in sports. I am, and I think it helped my mental state considerably. My surgery came a few days before Opening Day, which gave me something to look forward to and, when that first pitch came, something to concentrate on other than my sorry condition. (Even if it was thrown by a Yankee.) The Miami Open was also going on during my stay at University of Miami Hospital, and its long, sunlit matches helped me pass the time, especially since the book I’d brought proved too depressing for post-recovery reading. A victory by the team or person you’re rooting for lifts your spirits (thank you, Hubert Hurkacz!), while a defeat is easily forgotten in the more important realm of vitals and test results.
And it’s not only sports fans who benefit from the escapism of sports. Years ago in Philadelphia I visited a friend in the hospital, a writer and critic by the name of Vernon Young. Vernon was an intellectual and, like many intellectuals, had not the least bit of interest in sports. So I was surprised, walking into his room one day, to see the TV tuned to a Phillies game.
“Since when do you like baseball?” I asked Vernon.
"I like precision, and this man” – he nodded to the pitcher - “is very precise.”
At the Qatar Open yesterday, Roger Federer took the court for the first time in over a year. He was pushed to three sets by the Englishman Daniel Evans, and looked his old self – making ridiculous shots look easy while piling up the unforced errors. Though after a couple of the latter, uncharacteristically, he gave a wry smile. The weakest part of his game – his challenging of line calls – seemed to have improved until his third challenge when he questioned one of his shots that was well out. In his post-match interview, he still mixed graciousness – speaking fondly of his opponent (I wonder if Serena was watching) – with self-congratulation. Asked if he was feeling a rush of adrenaline on the match points, he said that he was feeling tired. It was a frank, human moment that reminded everyone that underneath the arrogance of the champion beats the heart of a man approaching middle age.
Checking the ESPN website in the evening, I found no mention of Federer’s return among the top news stories. I thought this was a tennis slight but when I told Hania, she said, “He’s not American.”
Soccer for me is like the ocean: I don’t have to see it but I like knowing it’s there if I want to.
As painful as it was for Serena Williams’s fans to watch her straight-set loss to Naomi Osaka at the Australian Open, watching her post-match press conference may have been even more so. She said not a single word about her opponent – who played brilliantly, handling even her fearsome serves – and at one point had the audacity to say that she could have been up 5-0 in the first set (she lost it 6-3). It is hard to imagine past champions, in the twilight of their careers, sulking through a post-match press conference and then tearfully getting up and leaving in the middle of it. Ashe? Evert? Sampras? Graff? Impossible.
Williams, now 39 years old, has had a phenomenal career. Of course it was disappointing for her to once again fail to win her 24th Grand Slam singles title, tying Margaret Court. But that press conference would have been the perfect occasion at which to graciously acknowledge that the torch has been passed to the next generation (Osaka is 23). Admittedly, this is not an easy thing for athletes to do, but in Williams’s case it should be a bit easier owing to the fact that, as everyone knows, it’s her torch that is being passed. Osaka clearly, admittedly, learned her power game by watching Williams, and is now the finest player on the WTA tour. In a refreshing turn for tennis, she combines her power on the court with poise and grace off it.