I think this happened last year too: the first week of the baseball season, Direct-TV opens all its Major League Baseball channels, showing games from around the country.
So last week I ended up in San Diego, because the Padres were hosting the Dodgers, and Vin Scully was announcing. In some ways, it is just the sound of his voice - the voice of lazy summer afternoons. (That's when most games were played when Scully began his career.) A few years ago I attended a game at Dodger Stadium and heard his play-by-play piped into the men's room - and found it a little difficult to return to my seat. He has, as they say of some pitchers, great command, giving background that seems perfectly timed to conclude with the next pitch, and his gracefully matter-of-fact description of it. He speaks as Flaubert and Fitzgerald wrote, without a wasted word.
There is also the historical aspect: this voice now gently mocking Manny's unlikeliness to steal second reverently recorded Sandy's pristine pitches. At a time when everything outside the stadium seems to be in flux, the voice inside remains unchanged. You can't help but listen.
Yesterday was my first opening day as an unemployed person, and I still didn't drive down to Dolphin Stadium to watch the game. It wasn't because I didn't want to mingle with gainfully employed people who'd called in sick. Rather, the 4 pm start would have made me late for Hania's birthday.
For northerners in Florida, opening day is a little like Christmas - a bit lacking in luster (if not meaning). Still, I dropped everything (which wasn't that much) at 1 pm to watch the Cincinnati Reds open at home for the 133rd time. The picture of Frank Robinson bundled in a convertible during the pre-game parade made opening day in South Florida seem a lot more appealing.
At 4 I switched over to the Marlins and Nationals, a game which included baseball's most exciting play - an inside-the-park home run (by a newcomer to the Marlins) - and its most dramatic - a grand slam (by the Marlins' former lead-off batter who has always struggled with RBIs).
This morning I turned on Sports Center to see the highlights. After the obligatory talk of the NCAA basketball championship, there was exhaustive coverage of the Yankees and Mets. It's just like in the publishing world, where writers outside New York are considered irrelevant. Still, there was immense satisfaction in watching the Yankees' new $161 million pitcher lose his first game. Schadenfreude, though rarely labeled as such, is one of our national pastime's greatest emotions.
Another long day at the Sony Ericsson yesterday. I went down on Saturday, with my writer's cap on. The plan was to wander the outer courts and report on the international aspect of tennis - people from over 30 countries were playing that day - but for the first time at the tournament I had trouble getting people to talk. I attribute it to the fact that many of today's players, and their entourages, come from formerly Communist countries where one didn't readily talk to strangers. The team of young Czech males watching Benesova's match gave me mumbled answers to my questions. The one exception was Caroline Wozniacki's father, whom I had a pleasant chat with before his daughter stepped onto her practice court. (She's listed as Danish, but her family's Polish.)
Yesterday, I returned as a spectator. For all the nationalities involved, tennis has become a pretty monotonous affair. Most everybody plays a power game, pounding the ball as hard as possible. Bludgeoners, McEnroe calls them. Agnieszka Radwanska was the only player I saw who mixed things up with an occasional drop shot. (Which the crowd loved.)
I sat in the 400 section for the Tsongas-Djokovic match and the monotony was enhanced by the fact that both men were dressed identically: white shorts, blue shirt, white cap. From on high I watched them glide from side to side, swinging big on every shot until one went long or out of reach. No strategy, no finesse, no touch, just pure, impressive, boring athleticism.
Four games in I got up and walked to the No. 2 court where a women's doubles match was taking place. And there I found volleys, lobs, drop shots, bliss.
I wrote yesterday's blog post before I learned that the Marlins' new stadium had been approved. I was delighted when I read the news in the Herald, and I enjoyed Greg Cote's column comparing the Miami-Dade County commission vote to a home run.
"Monday gave us a fighting chance," Cote wrote, "to become one of those cities that build a bond with baseball." The two cities he gave as prime examples were Boston and Chicago.
I hope the bond is built, but I'm not convinced it will be. The fan base for the Red Sox and the Cubs stretches for miles in many directions; people in Portsmouth and Peoria look forward to a trip to the big city to catch a game.
The same is not true for our scrappy, lovable Marlins. To the east of Miami is ocean; to the west, swamp; to the north, thousands of people who would rather swim with sharks than drive south on I-95. Some of them are baseball fans who attend games now, with one foot in Dade, but would not dream of braving the depths of Little Havana.
I'm not one of them - I'd rather go to Miami than any place in Florida - but I know them, I live among them. It's not so much that they hate Miami, or that they fear it (though many do), but that they see it as a thing apart, a place that has no meaning for them. Like Boston and Chicago, Miami is a regional capital - but the region is Latin America. (And not many people take planes to baseball games.)
It is impossible to imagine a concept like Marlins Nation. Marlins County is about the best we can hope for. Go Fish.
Francis Fukuyama got a lot of heat in the 90s for his statement about "the end of history" - criticism that continued as history stubbornly refused to end.
He probably should have said: "The end of learning about history."
PepsiCo has recently announced that Gatorade - the sports drink that sits in large containers on the sidelines and then gets poured over football coaches near the end of big victories - will now be known simply as G.
And so generations of young people will grow up unaware that this electrolyte beverage was discovered by researchers at the University of Florida to refresh the Gator football team during summer practices.
It shows a lack of respect for the past. Will students soon be reading Lincoln's G Address? Or will they skip it altogether?
And will football announcers now proclaim, just when the game is sealed, that players on the sidelines are headed to the "G-spot"?
I always love watching the Australian Open - that oasis in the Grand Slam desert that stretches from September to May - but this year it was especially enjoyable because I could see, in the shots of Melbourne, familiar places.
In fact, thinking back to my visit in July, I saw certain parallels to Federer's stay.
I was there participating in the Melbourne Festival of Travel Writing. It was put on by the University of Melbourne, and had an international group of participants, including a couple big hitters like Tony Wheeler.
And everything went well. I heard some fascinating speakers, met many interesting people, and in my free time explored the city. (Though instead of a heat wave, I experienced a damp cold.) When I gave my talk, it got a warm reception. (Though I did not toss my pens to the audience afterwards.)
Then, just before I left, I received an e-mail from my newspaper that I was getting laid off. So after two weeks of success and adulation, dismissal. Exactly as with Federer. Except that his defeat was public; mine was private. He was devastated. I was relieved.