Live… from Planet Houston

In the long tradition of ripping off the Sports Guy, I present to you my 2004 All-Star Game running notebook.  

8:07 PM.  We’re live from Fanta Grape Field… er, Minute Maid Park, here on the Planet Houston.  (I take no responsibility for anyone who doesn’t get that reference; such a person is already cursed for not appreciating the phrase, “Son of Jor-El: kneel before Zod!”)  I am taking advantage of my parents’ HDTV, watching the game with my younger brother, Patrick, and my mom, who had surgery earlier in the day on a broken finger and is all drugged up.  Dad is out of town, so the occasional semicoherent comments from Mom will have to suffice for humor tonight.  Kevin Kennedy and Jeannie Zalasko are both wearing yellow roses on their lapels.  When did the All-Star Game become the Enchantment Under the Sea dance?I wonder if there was an awkward moment before they went on the air when the wardrobe people are pinning the roses on Kennedy and Zalasko, all of them crossing their fingers and praying that no one gets stabbed in the process, while Joe Buck and Tim McCarver proudly take pictures.  It would have made for an entertaining pregame show.

8:08 PM: National League starter Roger Clemens is interviewed by Kennedy, his former manager in Boston.  I don’t think there has ever been a player of such dichotomy as Clemens in my lifetime.  Growing up, he was my favorite Red Sox player, along with Jim Rice and Dwight Evans.  When I pitched in Little League, I tried to imitate the way he held his glove in front of his face, hiding his expression from the hitter, the ultimate intimidator.  His bookend 20-strikeout games in ’86 and ’96 were both memorable moments for me; I celebrated the second one in my college dorm room my freshman year at Holy Cross.  Three years later I found myself engaging in a “WHERE IS ROGER?  IN THE SHOWER?” chant during Game 3 of the ALCS against the Yankees.  I don’t think any athlete has ever fallen from my admiration faster.  Still, a big part of me is happy that he is starting in the All-Star Game in his hometown, one more great moment in a career full of them.  

But I still hope he gets lit up like the Fourth of July.

8:10 PM: Time for the Taco Bell $1 Million Pitch Pre-Game Challenge!  Apparently, Tom Gray will win a million dollars if he can pitch five balls through a hula-hoop sized target in thirty seconds.  If he can’t accomplish this, he is (a) completely devoid of any semblance of minuscule athletic ability, and (b) in line to receive a consolation prize of a year’s supply of Taco Bell value meals.  Call me crazy, but that’s probably the last thing this gentleman needs in his life.  Alongside Mr. Gray is celebrity “Coach” Nolan Ryan, who looks absolutely thrilled to be here.  I keep waiting for him to finally lose his patience with this guy, put Gray in a headlock, throw him out of the way, fire five straight 90+ mph fastballs straight through the target, and spit on Gray’s writhing body as he storms off the field, arms raised in triumph, with a $1 million check in hand.  One can only wish.

8:14 PM: I’m trying to brainstorm some ways that Mike Piazza can show up Clemens tonight, short of putting him in a fireman’s carry, screaming, “I am the ultimate man, and he is the ultimate meatball”, then tossing him into the stands as Mets teammate Tom Glavine emerges from the dugout to start the game.  Either that, or he could pull a Crash Davis and tell each batter what pitch is coming.  My bet is on the latter.  More subtle, but much more diabolically effective.

8:17 PM: Time for the player/coach intros.  Somehow, the AL coaches are Tony Pena of the Royals and Carlos Tosca of the Blue Jays, while the NL counters with the Rockies’ Clint Hurdle and hometown favorite Jimy Williams of the Astros.  Are there any statistics on this?  Has there ever been an All-Star Game in which all four managers serving as coaches got fired in the same season?  With the probably exception of Pena, all of these guys’ heads are on the proverbial chopping block.  By the way, nice mixture of cheers and boos when Williams is introduced.  It had that same awkward feel that happens every time Kobe gets announced in the pregame intro, fans wanting to cheer but not sure if it’s appropriate, other fans blatantly voicing their opinions.  Not good times for Jimy.  Maybe it’s time to find where he misplaced the missing “m.”

8:20 PM: First pertinent comments from my drugged up Mom: “Hey, how do you get tickets to the All-Star Game?  `Sandlot’ was on last night, remember that movie?”

8:31 PM: American Idol Fantasia Barrino performs the National Anthem, introduced simply as “Fantasia.”  In that spirit, as much as possible, I am only referring to people by their first names for the rest of this column.  (Not really.)

By the way, is there a more uncomfortable couple of minutes in sports than the National Anthem?  Everyone wants to be respectful, especially after 9/11, but the moment is still incredibly gauche.  You get the annoying person, often a teenager, whose obnoxious cell phone ring goes off during the song, usually playing some digital version of 50 Cent or Usher.  There’s the fool who refuses to take his hat off.  There are the people who continue walking around the concourses, looking for their seats, completely oblivious to the fact that thousands of people are standing silently still, and they are making obvious noise.  Is it too much to ask people today to stand quietly for two minutes?

8:33 PM: A great moment, as Muhammad Ali comes out for the ceremonial first pitch.  It must kill such a proud man to be so debilitated by the dreadful disease of Parkinson’s, but anyone could see the pride and stubbornness on Ali’s face last night, much as you could feel his determination not to let the ailment beat him at the Atlanta Olympics in 1996.  What an inspirational character.

My personal favorite part of this was Ali playfully shadow boxing with Derek Jeter.  I just envisioned him reaching back, uncorking a mean hook on Jeter, knocking him out cold, ripping his shirt off to reveal a Red Sox jersey as Curt Schilling runs over and puts a Sox cap on Ali’s head, all while the crowd chants “Ali, Bomaye!  Ali, Bomaye!”  If only life worked like the script of a Naked Gun movie.

8:40 PM: The first appearance of Buck and McCarver.  Any commentary on them is probably best saved for a future column where I can focus on how McCarver hasn’t done anything worthwhile since the “Not So Great Moments in Sports”, and even then the best moment was the appearance of former SI swimsuit covergirl Elle MacPherson.    

8:46 PM: Not a great first inning for the Rocket.  Ichiro doubles to right field, Pudge triples off the right field wall, Manny hits a rocket for a home run.  3-0 AL right off the bat.  Hmmm…. maybe the Crash Davis theory has some weight.  “He teed off on that sucker like he knew I was going to throw a fastball.”  “He did know.  I told him.”  Notice that Clemens shook off Piazza the pitch immediately before Ramirez’s home run.

8:50 PM: In the first row behind home plate… is that… former President George Bush and his lovely wife, Barbara?  It most definitely is.  It would make my life right now to see the former Prez on his cell phone, waving, standing up, all excited to be in the first row and on national TV.  It would be even better if he started baiting the AL hitters, like that obnoxious heckler guy in Tampa Bay.  Of course, that is assuming that Mr. and Mrs. Bush are actually able to move around on their own and aren’t really just propped up, Weekend at Bernie’s-style.  I think if I made a movie and wanted to cast the 41st President, I would have to go with an animated Montgomery Burns from The Simpsons.

I am hoping Mr. Bush will stand up at some point and we’ll see him wearing a really old-school replica jersey, like Hank Greenberg or Mel Ott.  It would be even better if it was an authentic, game-worn Ty Cobb jersey, complete with the raised spikes.

8:53 PM: A-Rod strikes out.  Sweet justice.

8:57 PM: Joe Buck uses the word “triumvirate” to describe the system of official scorers that is used at the All-Star Game.  McCarver seems to be completely perplexed by this word, apparently not having taken 10th grade English Lit, and continues to go off on his rant without missing a beat, inexplicably arguing that a soft Giambi ground ball off the heel of Jeff Kent’s glove should be scored a hit.  This is probably the only thing I enjoy about the Buck-McCarver team: Buck’s tendency to make dry, sarcastic, intelligent humor and allusions, and McCarver’s contrasting ignorance, misunderstanding, and malapropisms.  Can we just get Jerry Remy to do color on every MLB telecast from now on?

8:58 PM: Good thing they scored that an error, because Soriano just gave the AL a big lead with a 3-run homer.  Wouldn’t want Roger to be charged with any extra earned runs and inflate his ERA… oh wait.  It’s an exhibition, McCarver!  As much as MLB touts that it counts, as the Rock would say, IT DOESN’T MATTER.  Who cares whether the scorer gave Jeff Kent an error or Jason Giambi a hit?  Just enjoy the game!

8:59 PM: Soriano’s home run is followed by the obligatory awkward fist-slaps and high-fives afterward.  I know I already harped on this with the Anthem, but is there any more awkward event than the All-Star Game?  Guys who, two days earlier, were supposed to be enemies and hate each other, team up together with the common cause of securing home field advantage for whichever team wins the pennant.  Red Sox and Yankees in the same dugout; Ramirez getting daps from Vlad Guerrero after his homer.  Cubs and Cardinals, Dodgers and Giants, Barry Bonds and anyone, in the same dugout, pulling for each other for a few hours.  

Do you think some of the players or coaches secretly pull for their All-Star teammates to get hurt or to play badly in the game?  Do you think Torre was thinking, “I hope Manny pulls his hammy rounding the bases”, or was Jason Schmidt thinking “Thank God Clemens got roughed up; I should have been starting all along?”  I realize that with free agency, trades, and interleague play, teams and players are much more mobile and lines are more blurred.  But it still is hard to see Gary Sheffield and Ortiz sitting side-by-side in the same dugout.  I wonder what it must have been like in the 70’s, with Fisk and Munson on the same team, or in the 40’s with DiMaggio and Williams manning the AL outfield.  Maybe Torre uses a Herb Brooks-esque motivational technique before he allows each player on the field:

Joe: “What’s your name, where are you from?”
Manny: “Manny Ramirez, from Dominican Republic.”
Joe: “Who do you play for?”
Manny: “AMERICAN LEAGUE!!!!!!” (and then sprints out to left field).

That really would be a Miracle.

9:06 PM: Drugged up Mom: “Who replaces someone if they get hurt?  Didn’t Ken Griffith get hurt, too?”

On that note, I’ll wrap up the notebook and just enjoy the rest of the game.  I guess we can cross our fingers and hope for a brawl later in the game.  Maybe then, the game will REALLY count.

By Ryan McGowan     2004