John Miller, player/coach of the Brussels Kangaroos and a reporter for a major American newspaper, is back chronicling his team’s 2009 season in his weekly column that will appear every Monday on mister-baseball.com.
The thrilling love-laced vacation to Moscow and Saint-Petersburg gives way to another chapter of work and home and baseball. I did manage to drag my wife to a Russian baseball game — but more on that next week.
Earlier in July, there was that staple of spiritual life: A baseball road trip. Friends and Kangaroos Manu, Jean-Mi, Frank and I piled into the rod and ran the road up to Rotterdam for the World Port Tournament.
Banging the wheels to the tar for the sake of hardball nourishment is an old tradition. When I was 15, my father took me on a week-long skip from Maryland to Cooperstown, NY. Along the way, we took in Minor League ball at evening stops in Pennsylvania and New York. In Williamsport, PA, we sat next to Mike Mussina’s high school psychology teacher.
Then there was Cooperstown. The Baseball Hall of Fame is terrific, of course, but you won’t find me going crazy with lyrical praise. At the end of the day, it’s a museum. Like all of life’s great experiences – music, reading, sex — the real thing is better.
That’s what drew my three amigos and I to the world’s seventh biggest harbor. We wanted to take in some quality grass and seam action.
In European baseball, the World Port Tournament ranks second only to official international events. The Dutch play four other teams, usually Cuba, Japan, Taiwan and the U.S. The hosts field the closest thing to a full-scale national squad. The other teams are second-stringers of some degree. The Cubans usually win.
This year’s tourney was not one of the best. The U.S. pulled out for lack of funds. Attendance was down. It rained. (Cuba won.)
But baseball worked its magic. We saw a couple gems. A gritty teenage-looking Japanese squad almost took down Team Nederland before losing in the bottom of the ninth.
(Here’s a mystery: Japan takes an infield worthy of the Bolshoi ballet, yet in the bottom of the ninth of that game, with the score tied, one out and the bases loaded, Team Nippon’s right fielder played a few steps from the warning track. Maybe it was Ichiro.)
In another thriller, Taiwan gave Cuba a ride before folding late. Fidel’s boys were true to themselves. Less than half-an-hour before the first pitch, a coach had to fish a couple ballplayers testing the Playstation in the Kid Zone. At least they weren’t trying to beat the radar gun record.
Of course, the big news was lucky lefty Aroldis Chapman defecting. Who can blame him? Cuba is Europe’s opposite: It’s too poor while its baseball is too good.
A road trip works best with a fraternity. We’re too old now to scoot up to Amsterdam (an hour’s drive) after the bars close in Rotterdam, but the bond of ancient teammates and true friends is tight. For three days, we ate and drank and filled four seats behind home plate.
We talked about spring training and container shipping and the Brussels Kangaroos and women. One morning, we went to an art museum. The next day, I caught the first live foul ball of my life. The real thing is better.
Tell me about great European baseball road trips you’ve taken at oldworldpastime@gmail.com