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.
For 10 days, I’ve been living in the U.S., where baseball is perhaps not as much of a religion as the Euro seam head crowd assumes. (No, most Americans are not good at baseball.) God’s game is certainly not as popular as it was 50 years ago.
I don’t see as many heart-warming ball fields as I used to as the plane approaches its American runway. There are ever more golf courses, malls and suburbs. This doesn’t cause me any great psychological pain – it’s a free country – but I do miss the diamonds.
There are millions and millions of people here who have no idea who are the stars on the TV. “Oh, I think I saw a ballgame on the Spanish station,” one relative told me.
I do tell them they are missing high drama. Both leagues are making up for the lackluster pennant races and ho-hum division series. Joe Torre is steady and secure as ever, even as his Dods flail against the tobacco-chewing Charlie Manuel.
Joe Girardi is becoming a tragic figure, unable to control his own penchant for overanalysis and forced maneuvers. He is too much the former player, dead confident in his own ability to reverse a tight situation.
Stationed here, there is the temptation to plunk down a few hundred and march up to the Bronx to watch one of these games. I will resist. The only post-season game I ever went to was anti-climactic and cold. I’d rather watch the TV theatrics and be warm and talk and drink beer, and not feel guilty afterwards. It’s like a good movie.
I’m staying the West Village, and it’s a treat to dig out a corner in a bar for some bad American beer and a juicy burger. New York has great bar food.
Last night, the bar erupted every time the Yankees scored or got a big out. When the Angels triumphed, there was total silence, although I cheered secretly with my beer.
In the last inning, a loud-spoken young woman sat next to me. She described herself as a baseball fanatic from Minnesota who had become a Mets fan after moving to New York 13 years ago. Crazy for baseball, she said. Later on, watching the Phils defeat the Dodgers in a different bar, I met another hyper-dedicated female fan. “Come on, Manny!” she shouted.
You don’t see that very often in the Old World.
Even in this country, I am reachable, on oldworldpastime@gmail.com
I imagine a Belgian beer and a ball game is probably the best of both worlds. Haven’t tried that yet, though, the closest I’ve come is a Heineken and a ball game.