TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME... NO MORE
It was announced over the winter that our professional baseball team had decided to leave town and move to Bangor, Maine. I was certainly sad when I read the news, but it hasn't really hit me until lately. Especially, last Monday night when I was biking home from work. My work is kitty corner to the baseball field. It was warm. As I was biking down the little road from my office toward the main street, I saw the park in the background. There was a smell in the air. I can't exactly describe the smell, only that it was the same one I smelled at the ballpark countless nights over the last several years. Not a smell of hotdogs or popcorn, but the smell of a languid summer evening. A languid summer evening where being at the ballpark seemed the most natural thing in the world. As I got closer, I half expected to see the illuminated floodlights at the stadium. With that smell, it only seemed obvious that there should be a game. But it was pitch black. There was no light. There was no game. And then it hit me. There will be no baseball anymore. And I was sad.

Baseball is not my favorite sport. That honor goes to soccer and then to hockey. But, baseball is different than those other sports. Hockey is frantic and energetic. Soccer may not always be fast-paced, but the action is constant and you'd better pay attention lest you miss what might be the game's only goal. Baseball is different. It is calm, relaxing. It's not just about the game on the field, it's about being in the park. Baseball is a crappy game to watch on television, but it's an incomparable experience at the ballpark. Different than the adrenaline rush of a hockey or football crowd, but exquisite in its own way.

Going to baseball games had become an integral part of my summer. They played about 40 home games a year, of which I typically attended anywhere from 15-25. So their departure will fill a void in three months of the year. I was sad, but not surprised. Attendance was not good. There are too many things to do in the summertime in this area, too many things to spread around the entertainment dollar. Baseball had to compete with amusement parks and swimming and boats and hiking and biking and concerts in the park and.... I attended numerous games on gorgeous Sunday afternoons where only a few hundred fans showed up; I went to too many of those games to blame the management. They did as much as they could. They won 2 championships and were in the playoffs 3 of the last 4 years, yet attendance was never good. They stuck with my town for 8 seasons and tried to make it work, but it just didn't. I don't blame them. I don't blame them, but I'm still sad.

I'll miss the summer evenings in the fresh air. I'll miss the race around the bases between the mascot and a randomly chosen little kid; this was wonderful because although the mascot lost every time, he seemed to find a different way to lose each time and you paid attention even though you knew who was going to win. I'll miss the rush toward the concession stands every time the "beer batter" struck out (half priced alcohol!). I'll miss free hot dogs and hamburgers in the 8th inning of the last game of a homestand. I'll miss singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame (which, fortunately, was only occassionally replaced with God Bless America). I'll miss being able to go to a baseball game, eating dinner and having the whole night cost $15 or less. Most of all, I'll miss the experience of going to the ballpark anytime I wanted.

Adirondack Lumberjacks: 1995-2002. RIP.

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So in the honor of the Adirondack Lumberjacks 8 seasons, here are the my most compelling memories of Jacks baseball (bearing in mind that I missed almost all of the '95 and '96 seasons in Africa)...

1) Game 5 of 1999 quarterfinal at Albany. The deciding game was delayed for over 2 hours by rain but they got it in. It was masterfully pitched and had awesome defense, considering the conditions. The game ended after 1 AM and I listened to every minute on the radio, collapsing in deflation after the final out. It was the most compelling game I've ever listened to on the radio.

2) Game 3 of 2000 finals vs Duluth-Superior. The park was jam packed. The Jacks completed a 3 game sweep of the heavily favored opposition, thus demonstrating that old baseball axiom that awesome pitching beats awesome hitting. Reinforcing the down-home atmosphere is outfielder Keith Goodwin who, after the trophy presentation, goes into the stands and high-fives fans as they leave.

3) Late August 2002 regular season game vs Quebec. This game was different from the others in that hardly anyone was there. The game's start was delayed for 2 1/2 hours because of rain. But because it was in the heat of a pennant race, the management was determined to play the game come hell or high water (pun intended). They didn't want to lose a playoff spot by 1/2 game because of an unplayed contest. So I watched the game, with about 25 other people. The game went fast because the ump had a big strike zone because he was cold and wet and wanted to go home. We could hear every word that was said not only in the stands, but on the field, including the Quebec manager's constant bitching and eventual tirade that led to his ejection. Even though there were at most two dozen other people in the stands, even though it was only a regular season game, even though I was wet and cold, or perhaps BECAUSE of those things, I never felt more a part of a community of fans than that soaked evening.

4) Game 5 of 2002 quarterfinal vs Quebec. The game was back and forth but the climax was incredible. The home side led by a run with 2 outs in the top of the 9th in this deciding Game 5. Men on second and third. The batter hits a line drive to the gap. The center fielder dives. If he makes the grab, we win the series. If not, the other team takes the lead. He makes the catch. Not just any catch, but a highlight reel catch worthy of Sportscenter. We advance and it leads to...

5) Game 5 of 2002 semifinal vs New Jersey. We were banged up, they were healthy. They had the largest budget in our division and we had the smallest. They had great pitching, ours supposedly lacked depth. They drew huge crowds, we drew small ones. It was expected to be no contest. And when the bad guys won the first two games in New Jersey, everything seemed according to script. Except we won the next two games at home, including Game 4 against one of their former major league pitcher. Game 5 had all the drama worthy of a series decider. NJ's other former major league pitcher had spun a masterful game, but our 23 year old rookie, who'd missed an earlier start due to injury was even more so. He had a shut out going into the 9th, with us leading 1-0. He walked the leadoff batter in the 9th and was replaced by our theretoforth brilliant closer. Our closer got two outs but was rattled by the umpire's erratic strike zone ("Hey ump, nail down that plate. It keeps moving on you!") and walked the next two batters to load the bases. The count was 3-2, the pitch was a fastball. The batter connected. It went into the gap in left-center. Except this time there was no Sportscenter-esque catch. 3 runs scored. The air was let out of the balloon. We didn't score in the bottom of the 9th. They won the series, and eventually the championship. It was as emotionally drained as I've ever felt after watching a sporting event.

For us, it was our team's last game, even though this wasn't officially confirmed until months later (although most of us knew it was possible). We were one strike away. I'm a Red Sox fan so that feeling isn't unfamiliar. But as painful as 1986 was, at least Red Sox fans had 1987.