The Marlins said goodbye to their rented home in a touching ceremony. Yes, almost every other franchise has a richer history, but how many of their fans can remember the pitch that started it? Seeing footage of Charlie Hough winding up on the first Opening Day in South Florida was all the more meaningful because most of us could remember where we were when it happened. (Watching on the TV in my editor's office at the Sun-Sentinel.)
There were some lovely moments yesterday: Hanley Ramirez walking out with his children after being introduced as the All-Time Marlins shortstop, and then speaking appreciatively of the fans (who have not always been so appreciative of him). Videos of best wishes from Derrek Lee and Dontrelle Willis. The inclusion on the All-Time Team of Alfredo Amezaga, a player who was never an All-Star but who, more than Jeff Conine, more even than Willis, personified the young, eager, happy-to-be-here Marlins. Crusty Jack McKeon telling the fans: "You're my family. I love you all."
At one point I even heard in the background Louis Armstrong singing "What a Wonderful World," a post-game tradition that should be carried over to the new stadium. But that should be about the only one.
The Florida Marlins are dead. Long live the Miami Marlins.
At lunch last week with my friend David, I mentioned that I was going to be covering the U.S. Open.
"We went there when I was a boy," he said. "We saw Althea Gibson."
He pronounced her name tentatively; it had probably been decades since he'd mouthed it. David is not a tennis fan, but it was perfectly fitting that he had once watched one of the game's legends. A privileged upbringing and a bookish life have made David an occasional witness, and an encyclopedic connoisseur, of excellence in all fields. There have been times when he has left the periphery and actually touched greatness: Living in London in the mid-70s he ran into a man on the sidewalk - a full-frontal crash - whom he recognized as Graham Greene.
I told him that it seemed frivolous to write about a tennis tournament while the world was going to pieces.
"Yes," he agreed. "But fun."
(For the next two weeks you can find me at www.worldtennismagazine.com, after which I'll be heading to the Czech Republic for a few days. See you back here on Sept. 19.)
Yesterday I had lunch in Coral Gables with my friend David. David is also a writer, and his house is filled with books, literally; they rise in impressive piles on his living room floor. It helps (or doesn't, depending on one's taste in interior design) that he works in a bookstore.
David lives within walking distance of the University of Miami and often uses the library. Nevertheless, he had only heard vague rumblings about problems with the athletic program. I filled him in on all the sordid details of the investigation, which didn't surprise him.
"Whenever I've heard one of the players interviewed," he said, "they don't sound as if they can read."
After lunch we walked to Publix, where David bought his weekly lottery tickets. On the way out he quoted a line about betting from Flann O'Brien's At Swim-Two-Birds.
Mike Stanton's 10th inning grand slam was enough to lift the Marlins over the Mets last night but it was not good enough to get them onto the front page of the Herald's Sports section. That page was reserved for a story about a former Dolphin returning to the team, a story about the Dolphins offensive line, a column about the Dolphins, and a story about an upcoming exhibition soccer match.
Speaking of exhibition games, the Dolphins haven't even started theirs. They're practically blanketing the front page of Sports and they've only started practicing.
Granted, the Marlins are 15 games out of first place. But you have to wonder how much closer they'd be if they got some support from hometown fans and local media. It must be frustrating to be in the middle of your season and to watch a team in training get all the headlines.
The Marlins may have gotten a new stadium, but respect is still a long ways off.
We found the man sitting in the white, 7.90 AM van, received the bumper sticker, and then exchanged it at the window (defeating, it seemed, the sticker's putative promotional purpose) for two $7.90 tickets.
Our seats were 19 rows behind home plate. In the first two innings Nolasco gave up 14 hits - I wondered if this were some kind of record - without receiving a single visit from the dugout (a record for sure). "Jack must have nodded off," John said.
In the 6th - score 14-3 - John and I moved to seats in row 11 halfway between home and first base. In the middle of the 7th, people stood and sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" softly, obediently, but also with a strange kind of conviction. There's something about this moment that always moves me.
In the top of the 9th the Marlins sent their centerfielder to the mound. "He's the new Dontrelle Willis," someone shouted. After he walked a batter, someone yelled in the direction of the ump: "Don't want to ruin his ERA." The third out was a high fly ball to the deepest part of centerfield. Happily, the Marlins had put a new centerfielder there. Petersen, the outfielder-turned-pitcher, got a standing ovation from our section as he headed to the dugout.
I had sat in this section late in games before, but never at such a lopsided game. I discovered that the people who stay till the bottom of the 9th of a rout by the visiting team are just the sort of people you want to sit with in the bottom of the 9th of a rout by the visiting team. We were like one big happy ironic family. "Thank God," someone said after Dobbs grounded to first for the next-to-last out.
A headline in the Miami Herald's sports section today reads: "Isner, Agassi are lone bright spots for U.S. game."
"Looking for a silver lining," the story begins, "in what has been an otherwise forgettable spring and early summer for U.S. tennis?"
The author finds only two positives: Andre Agassi's induction into the International Tennis Hall of Fame and John Isner's victory at the recent Hall of Fame tournament.
I hope Bob and Mike Bryan don't read the Herald.