I had the pleasure of spending yesterday afternoon in Frederick, Maryland, for a minor league baseball game between the Frederick Keys and the Myrtle Beach Pelicans. The game was played at Harry Grove Stadium, a quaint little park on the southern edge of town. Actually, as of six months ago, the park is officially called Nymeo Field at Harry Grove Stadium, proof again that even quaint ballfields in 18th century cities must carry corporate sponsorship in 2015. (Nymeo is apparently some kind of local credit union. Harry Grove? Founder of a pre-war professional team in town known as the—get this—Frederick Hustlers. Awesome.)
I was joined at the game by a few old friends and a few new friends taking up a full aisle two rows behind the home team’s dugout. I couldn’t have asked for a better seat or a nicer day—not bad for probably the only one I’ll go to all year. The game was one of those in which I really didn’t care about the outcome, though one usually finds himself rooting for the home team, of course. The only name I recognized on either roster was that of the visitor’s hitting coach, one Mariano Duncan, one-time Yankee infielder and two-time World Series champion. Duncan played his final major league game in 1997, I’m sure before half the fans at the game yesterday were even born. And some of the players on the field could barely grip a bat.
Minor league baseball, of course, is real America, even with its ridiculous in-game promotions and eight-dollar beers. (Or perhaps that is real America, and it’s time for me to rethink what I mean by that phrase.) I should make mention of the fact that the Keys are named for a certain local poet, he of Star-Spangled Banner fame. You could say Francis Scott Key’s work shows up at more ballgames than that any other poet, save perhaps the fellas who wrote “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and anyone who wants to take credit for the phrase !@#$^%. It’s got to be intimidating to sing the national anthem in Key’s (sort of) hometown, but it was belted out with aplomb by my one-time bandmate David Marcus, he of Market Street Big Band fame. (It’s true we all know everybody in small-town America.)
As for the game itself, the Keys pulled out a 2-0 win in what turned out to be a great pitchers’ duel played in two hours, 22 minutes. I left a scoreless game after five innings, returning to babysitting duty on the homefront, of course, but I’d gotten my money’s worth. I think one day next year I’ll begin taking Franklin with me to ballgames, because it’s really never too early to start.
I’ll probably make it through only three innings that day.