I walked into the park hoping not to hear the siren call: “there’s always next year.”
We were so close yesterday; down four to two in the bottom of the ninth and runners on first and second with two out. The center fielder lines a shot down the first base line and into the corner. One run scores. The third base coach waves the next runner home, trying to score from first. He is thrown out at home. Game over.
We came into this final weekend in control of our own destiny. Win two and we take the division. One win and a loss by Windy City, and we make the playoffs.
So far, no good. Game one of the series wasn’t that close. Game two ends at home plate. Windy City wins their games. Now it is very simple: we need help. The last game of the season is a must win, and our arch rivals have to lose for the season to continue.
Unfortunately, “there’s always next year” is exactly what I’m expecting to hear.
Okay, so it isn’t the big leagues. Our Southern Illinois Miners are only three years old and play in the Frontier League, a small independent league with teams around the Midwest and Great Lakes region. There are no television contracts, no coverage on ESPN, and little attention paid outside of the communities where the teams play. But that doesn’t matter to the fans.
The game is exactly the same as it is in the majors: 60 feet from the pitcher’s mound to home plate, 90 feet between bases, three strikes and you’re out, three outs per inning, nine innings per game excepting a tie. It’s the same game mythology says Abner Doubleday set the rules for in Cooperstown.
In some ways, perhaps the game is better. Not better in the quality of play or in the level of athlete perhaps, but more personable. This brand of baseball is perhaps a throwback to an earlier era. It is not a game played by multi-millioniare prima-donnas but by guys playing for the love of the game. Guys who may have dreams of making it to the big leagues one day, or who realize the sun has set on the big dream but want to keep playing as long as they can nonetheless.
Things are not looking good by the time our game starts. Windy City has already jumped out to a big lead early in the game.
Even in a small minor league stadium like this, the baseball park is a special place. There is the sound of the crowd; a thousand conversations going on at once, pausing as the pitcher lets the ball fly and resuming when the ball hit’s the catcher’s mitt. Unless the bat makes contact with the ball, of course. Or the pitch was an important one. Or the umpire’s call was questionable; and sometimes even if it wasn’t.
“What game are you watching, ump?!?”
The beer guy makes his way through the stands, his voice bellowing:
“Peanuts!!! Cracker Jacks!!!”
The crowd joins in.
“Ice cold BEER!!!”
The chorus roams throughout the stands as he makes his rounds.
There is the crack of the bat hitting the ball, and a foul ball sails back over the crowd and out of play. From the stadium speakers comes the sound of breaking glass and a pitch for The Glass Doctor.
“The Glass Doctor will fix your panes.”
The Miners take a one run lead in the first inning. The Rascals respond with a run in the second, and the Miners reply in kind. In the third, the Rascals tie the game. Then the Miners jump all over the Rascals’ pitcher and score four more in the bottom of the third, and follow that up with five more in the fourth.
It doesn’t matter. By the fifth inning, we know this game is our swan song. Windy City has won over Rockford, 10 to 6. No matter what we do, the season ends tonight.
I sigh in my seat overlooking third base. This is the last time I’ll be here this year. I look around and take in the atmosphere of the park. A fragrant cloud of smoke hangs over the Buffalo Bar-N-Grille on the concourse above the right field foul line. Stronger and more alluring yet is the Philly Cheese Steak someone just sat down with a few seats over. Tempting, if I hadn’t already eaten.
Down in the corner by the left foul pole, groups of kids are running around and playing. They are also hoping to have a shot at the ball if a homer or a long foul comes their way. Behind them and beyond the fence that guards the edge of the park is a pond that may well have once been dug by an old strip mine. A sign on the left field fence proclaims that seven homers have splashed down in the pond this year. Another comes close to joining it but hooks foul and toward the crowd of playing kids, who scramble for a souvenir that might just end up with a few signatures on it after the game.
The starting pitchers come out of and both managers start to rotate players into the game, getting the bench players some playing time in this last game of the regular season. Some of them may be back next year, some may not.
After exploding with 11 runs in the first four innings, our bats quiet down. The Rascals manage a few runs, but never mount a serious threat. As the third out is recorded in the bottom of the 8th, the reality hits that we have likely just seen the last Miners’ batter of the year. Several minutes later, a Rascals batter flies out to left field for the final out of the game. We end the season on a positive note, but there is the melancholy feeling that the season is over and we let it get away. The Rascals will play again this year; they clinched the division when they beat us last night.
The players shake hands with each other. Some of them head to the locker room and some stick around as fans begin to pour out and onto the field. Players find themselves surrounded by fans young and not quite so young; some posing for photos with the players and some with souvenirs to sign. These guys may not be big leaguers, but they are still heroes to scores of adoring fans. How many of them will be back in the black and white of the Miners next year?
I step out and onto the field. It’s softer than I expect, and I think it would be fun to play on. I walk around and see several of the players; thanking them for the good show they put on this season. We may have come up a game short, but it was still a fun ride. These are our guys, and we love them for it.
After several minutes, the field lights dim and a fireworks show puts an exclamation point on the night. The show goes on for several minutes, capped off by a spectacular grand finale. Then the lights come back on and the crowd begins to filter toward the exits.
I make my way up the stairs and out the front door. The sign still looks inviting even as I leave following the last game of the season. I’ll be back to Rent-One Park when the games start again.
There’s always next year.
Author's Note: I was not planning on doing photography at the game; photos were taken on a cell phone. Please excuse the quality. Thanks.----------
Mary Rae McPherson
At the plate.
Letting the pitch fly.
This swing knocked one out of the park.
Waving the runner home.
The runner charges home as the throw reaches the relay man.
The runner slides as the throw comes to the plate.
Safe at home!
Brad Miller swings at a pitch.
Joey Metropolus puts one into play.
At dusk, the game continues under the lights at Rent One Park.
