Losing My Shit in Tucson: An Introduction of Sorts

The Athletic Supporter Is Cagey H. But Who Am I?

(This was the original introduction to a column discussing sports and its cultural implications entitled, The Athletic Supporter. Cagey H. is The Athletic Supporter. This column appears from the Archives, November 2002.)

Allow me to clarify one major point before we move on: I understand that professional athletes don’t deserve the adoration they receive from the American public. Professional athletes’ contributions to society, when compared to that of schoolteachers, doctors, sewer maintenance workers, pale. I get this: the absurdity of living and dying on whether or not a tightly wound ball covered in leather does or does not cross over a plastic plate, is not lost here. No, I can’t justify a middle relief pitcher, who works maybe 80 days a year, making $875,000. But what I can tell you is that when I was a skinny little olive-skinned kid throwing tennis balls against the railroad tie steps in my back yard, I was Scott Garrelts.

Scott Garrelts, San Francisco Giants pitcher who had his debut in 1982 and went on to win 69 games for the G-men over a 9-year span. Nationally, he was never a star, but in my room, when my dad had sent me off to bed, I would tune in the radio and listen to the Giants game, and he was the man. “Garrelts checks the runner, looks into the catcher Brenly, he’s got the sign, Garrelts delivers and…,” and the Giants were my team, and he threw for them.

Fast forward 20 years, past the Hack Man, Jeffery Leonard, past the ‘89 Bay Bridge fiasco that involved a) losing to the white-shoed Oakland A’s and b) an earthquake that bounced our Chevrolet Suburban off the driveway and onto the lawn. Fast forward past years of high level performance with no World Series title for the Giants and deposit your ass into late October, 2002 and the morning before game 6 of the 2002 World Series. Deposit yourself there because that’s where I am. It’s the morning before the biggest game in my Giants fan life and I’m on a plane, descending into Tucson, Arizona.

I’m here for a wedding. A friend from work is getting married and I accepted the invitation well in advance of the improbable Giants run through 5 games of the World Series. I couldn’t back out, man’s got his word and if he can’t keep that then he’s really got nothing, I’m paraphrasing someone or something there, maybe Scarface. Descending into Tucson I’m reminded that human beings have an amazing ability to create entire living environments in places that scream, “This is not for you.” Low, treeless mountains surround Tucson. The landscape reminds me of the shitty point in the story, “The Lorax,” by Dr. Seuss. When the all of the trees the Lorax called home had been chopped down, turning his land into a giant purple bikini wax. I could never live in the desert. If I’m not near a large body of water, preferably the ocean, I’m suffocating. Charred remains of an airplane accompany the landing area as we touch down, my stomach turns and I tell myself it’s hunger that drives the uneasiness, not the emptiness that accompanies entering a cultural vacuum.

The 2002 World Series would, obviously, carry a great interest for myself from the get-go, but would have to play itself into the hearts of the rest of America. When it comes to baseball, people love their team and game sevens. When New York hosted the subway series, two years ago, it boasted the lowest ratings of all time for a World Series, up to that point. A wise man once said, “Football is the American pastime, baseball is the regional pastime.”

The famous missed ball episode.

The two World Series that I’ve given emotional involvement to were: 1989, Giants vs. the A’s, and 1986, Mets vs. the Red Sox. Now we can argue this forever but for my money, the only non-SF Giants World Series of note was 1986. Darryl Strawberry, in his coke binging, homerun trotting prime, Dwight Gooden with his wicked curveball, Len Dykstra, whose nickname was “Nails,” Calvin Schiraldi, crying in the dugout, Dave Henderson’s mustachioed youthful exuberance for the game and, of course, Mookie Wilson and Bill Buckner forever linked together. Mookie would claim that the ball he hit had a lot of spin on it. Regardless, the ball off Mookie’s bat in game 6 of the 1986 World Series slowly trickled down the third base line, an easy out. Buckner bent down to receive the ball and it improbably went through his legs. That moment in game 6 of the 1986 World Series was the most dramatic play I have ever witnessed as a sports fan. The moment captured, for me, the gamble an athlete makes with his life: I’ll be your hero, but I could be your goat.

The Giants entered tonight’s game 6 with a three games to two edge. Game five was a decisive victory at the Giants home, Pac Bell Park, which I attended. San Francisco handed out an old fashioned beat down, 16-4, and the post game celebration spilled out into the street and saw me high-fiving strangers and opening up a blister on my right hand from too much clapping against my wedding ring. The City sensed the release awarded to those who capture a long awaited championship. San Francisco had never won a baseball title and, despite having more Hall of Fame players than any other major league franchise, felt like dues had been paid.

I shouldn’t go much further without mentioning Barry Bonds. Unless you’re about 90 years old, you’ve never seen a better position player. Entering the 2002 season the only legitimate knock on Bonds was that he was a poor performer in the post season. In the two preceding series, National League Wild Card and the National League Championship Series, he devastated two pitching staffs. His presence in the on-deck circle was affecting pitchers and managers alike and the greatness that Giants fans had been privy to for ten years was exposed on a national stage. This World Series was his. He had taken the Series over and he had done it on his terms, dismissing reporters and teammates, all the while toying with some of the best pitchers (John Smoltz, Tom Glavine and Matt Morris) in the National League. It was his revenge.

Where Am I?

My Tucson Plan was to get in and get out. We, a couple of friends from San Francisco and myself, would be amongst the sand and rocks for less than 24 hours. No rental car lines, take a taxi to and from the airport and fly out Sunday morning at 7:00 am. It was a quickie. We went cheap on the hotel and four of us split two rooms for a total of about $100. I was in the Cabeza Suite, which means, “head suite,” I think.

We had a couple of hours to kill before the wedding. We decided to grab some food and beer and sit by the pool. It being a frugal trip I decided on the Weinershnitzel trifecta: corn dog, chili-cheese dog, kraut dog…and a six pack of Tecate. I like to fit the food with the mood and with Tucson so close to Mexico I felt Tecate was the play here. Every move I made was with game 6, at 5:30 pm, in mind. “Don’t drink too much during the day so you can really party tonight,” I would tell myself. The pool proved refreshing.

I suited up and shoved off for the wedding ceremony. Upon arriving, my first order of business was to scout out a television. The wedding was held at a hotel/bar/restaurant/reception hall/all-things-to-all-people kind of place. Hacienda Del Sol was set on a low hill and sprawled out for acres in all directions. Clouds rolled in from the west and guests milled around the courtyard where the outdoor ceremony was set to take place. I said my hello’s and ducked into the restaurant area to see if a TV was available. It was 3:30 pm and the place was empty. I scooted past the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign and entered the bar area. An attractive young bartender was setting up for the night.

ME: “Will you guys show the game tonight?”
HER: “I don’t see why not…we’re having live jazz from 6 until 9, but we can keep the game on.”
ME: “Great, I’m going to hold you to that…”
HER: “Jennifer.”
ME: “Jennifer, great, thank you.”

So it was set. I had a verbal commitment from the bartender — now all I needed to do was watch two people join together for life before I sat down to focus on the task at hand, securing a World Series title for my beloved city, San Francisco.

The ceremony was pleasantly sparse. Maybe ten rows of white chairs, a fountain and some well manicured lawn. The minister was the bride’s sister. No extended entrance for the wedding party and no drawn out religious ceremony. One thing to note was that during this ceremony, in the middle of the desert, it rained for about 10 minutes. The guests looked at each other and smiled. I wondered if maybe the rain was God crying because these people chose to wed outside a church, then I remembered that I don’t believe in god.

The ceremony concluded at about 5:00 pm and I made sure to congratulate the bride and groom right away. Get in that face time because I knew I’d miss the entire meal, best man speech thing, and that’s rude; so by glad-handing now maybe I could control the social damage just a touch. People commented that rain at a ceremony was good luck. No matter what happens at a wedding, it’s good luck. If, while grandma had stood at the altar besides the loving couple and urine had poured down her stockings, people would consider it lucky.

I moved to the bar area. Jennifer was there doing pre-customer bar things. I surveyed the alcohol selection and decided tequila was the call here. The game was minutes away, I was close to Mexico.

“One Patron silver, neat, please.”

How Am I?

The Giants starter for game 6 was Russ Ortiz. He’s a very quiet man from Southern California, a religious man who isn’t preachy about his faith. He was steady for the Giants all season, winning his last 6 starts of the regular season. He pitched well in the two previous playoff series but laid an egg in game 2 of the World Series. The first five hitters in Game 2 got a hit off Ortiz and the Giants went onto lose a classic battle of a game, 11 to 10. His pitches were flat that night and his lack of emotion was a touch disconcerting. Which Ortiz would show up?

The bar was near empty. It was about 6:00 pm and the only people who were joining me for this moment were four old people. They were enjoying what I think may be a staple of the Tucson retirement crowd: quesadillas and scotch. My periodic screams as the game moved through the first four innings startled them and the two old men took turns shooting me stares. Tequila helped me shoot stares back. Ortiz was pitching well, this was a great baseball game, respect for my elders be damned.

Mr. Dunston, I believe these belong to you.

The fifth inning began with a Reggie Sanders pop-up to the shortstop. David Bell followed with another ball to the miniature man shortstop, David Eckstein, that was not handled perfectly and Bell was aboard with an infield single. Shawon Dunston, who is closer in age to the geriatrics a couple of tables over from me than to myself, stepped to the plate with Bell on first. For home games, at Pac Bell Park, Shawon enters the batters box accompanied by “So Fresh, So Clean,” by Outkast. He hit less than .200 all season for the G-men and he’s got about three at bats for the entire World Series.

Shawon Dunston hits a fucking home run over the shortest part of the park in left field.

Tequila and I point to the old people, “So Fresh, So Clean.” I’m standing in the basically empty bar, fist in the air, as Shawon trots around the bases.

The Giants would go onto score another run that inning; add a Barry Bonds dong in the eighth and a Jeff, police officer mustache, Kent RBI in the seventh. Through this time tequila and I made friends and enemies at a ratio of about 1 friend (bartender Jennifer) to 8 enemies. The bar and restaurant employees were Angels fans. This seemed fishy to me, the Angels are owned by the evil Disney Empire, play in an anti-city (Anaheim) and have a season ticket base of about 10,000 fans. I asked the sous-chef, who kept popping her pig-tailed head from out of the kitchen, how she became an Anaheim Angels fan.

“Actually, I don’t necessarily like the Angels but you need somebody to shut you up.”

The sentiment in the bar was summarized for me. Jennifer was on my side for two reasons, I believe. First, I was drinking wildly overpriced tequila and tipping generously. Secondly, she had recently been to San Francisco and thought the City was beautiful. Pai Gow. I’ll take what I can get. I grew up an only child and teamwork has never been my strong suit. Jennifer, tequila and me. This bar can eat my shorts, I’ll be leaving with a new championship ring (metaphorically speaking, sort of) in an hour or so and their faces will be forgotten. The Giants ended their half of the seventh inning up five runs to none.

And then it happened. The most devastating hour of my sports watching life unfolded in this southwestern bar. The Angels came back, over the course of their next two at bats and beat the Giants. I don’t want to give you a blow-by-blow description of the action because, quite frankly, it is much, much too painful. The Giants bullpen, the best in the league over the last three months, gave up 6 runs in 6 outs. People piled into the bar as the Angels roared back and even the old people talked some smack.

“Looks like somebody got ahead of himself,” was the comment Thurston Howell directed my way. I have never wanted to shit on someone’s hors de oeuvres before, but at that moment, the idea of unzipping my slacks, calmly walking to their table and pushing out a little Cagey H. pate seemed like it would be satisfying.

People from the wedding spilled into the bar, including the groom. My level of intoxication was well beyond what the beer and wine supplied by the reception had done to my fellow wedding guests. I slurred my way through a description of what happened to the Giants. One of the groomsman was an L.A. Dodger fan and expressed joy in the Giants’ demise. He continued on with some L.A. vs. San Francisco quality of life/weather mumbo jumbo. I didn’t feel like debate hour. If he wanted to continue with his rambling, I explained, I would have no problem hitting him in the mouth. I think I meant it in jest; it didn’t come out that way.

I left the bar and joined the wedding celebration. I danced the dances. At one point tequila and I grabbed a three-foot tall ceramic rooster and created, on the fly, a dance that involved pecking the wedding guests. I went outside and shared a menthol cigarette with an older lady from the bride’s side of the wedding party and through the course of conversation she revealed that she was sixty-two years old. I told her she was “sexty-two” in my book. It was then that I realized I was an emotional wreck. In the house that is my personality, my social skills were a tired old car, up on blocks, on the front lawn. I sat down at a table and gathered my thoughts.

Who Are We?

The Giants of 2002 represented a once in a decade opportunity for San Francisco. A baseball championship has eluded the City, for all time. The manager will not be with the team next year along with many important members of the 2002 team. It was a shot at baseball immortality and the Giants whiffed or, more precisely, defined who the San Francisco Giants are: a team that doesn’t win championships.

European settlers first arrived to North America in the northeast. White Americans moved their way west. California, and more specifically San Francisco, established itself as a major city approximately 100 years after major cities developed on the eastern seaboard. The Boston Red Sox famously traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees and have not won a world series for three generations [this changed in 2004, editor's note]. The Chicago Cubs have become synonymous with the term “loveable loser.” And now, the Giants join these two teams, completing history’s push west.

(Images Via: Badwax, 55 Places, Grandstand Sports, GraniteGrok, AZ Foothills Magazine, Peachin)

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Posted by Cagey H on July 30 2010. Filed under Athletic Supporter. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry