A few days ago I went to a baseball game with my little brother in the Pawtucket Rhode Island, a city that could be characterized as epitomizing the pitfalls of globalization and representing post-industrial revolution America. Author Dan Barry’s interesting account of the Pawtucket Red Sox baseball team, Bottom of the 33rd: Hope, Redemption, and Baseball’s Longest Game, shows what baseball means to this depressed post-industrial town. It also shows what sport can mean to a struggling community. Although I had read the book years ago, it echoed in my mind as I sat in the seats of aging McCoy stadium with my brother, taking in a typically American sporting event in the early days of summer.

Schools were passing the time before the end of the school year by giving the kids a de facto day off by taking a field trip to the ball park; the voices of children melded together and created such a buzzing sound that my brother and I referred to them as “bees”. Later I learned that it was “kids and seniors day”, an odd combination but it made sense when my brother (himself only fifteen) pointed out that “people walk slow when they are young,” pointing to a small child negotiating the stadium steps with his father, “and they also walk slow when they are old,” no doubt referring to our father. Indeed, it is the circular nature of life that my brother—perhaps unwittingly—uncovered on this afternoon.

The afternoon consisted of a double header, two seven inning games. The first game is spent behind home plate, “the best seats in the house” as my brother said. I couldn’t help but notice that the majority of (empty) seats around us were those reserved for corporations. It was normal for them to be empty for a game with an 11 am start time, after all the owners of said seats were busy at work making the money to afford those seats. It was also an example of industrial sports at their finest, the best views go to those with the most money. The rich get richer (financially and culturally) while the rest…well, you know how the story goes.

 

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Behind the Plate, Welcome To Pawtucket. Image Courtesy of the Author.

 

The first game ends with a victory for the home team as my brother and I head over to Papa Gino’s for a pizza, waiting out the twenty-minute break between games. As we wait we watch a a controversy over payment: did the woman in question pay or did she not? It is a meaningless discussion since life will go on, it is—after all—an overpriced cheese pizza that is in question. Perhaps those working could have kept track of things, but that is beyond my purview. Maybe they’ll just build some more security cameras in the future in order to ensure payment (and ensure our surveillance as well in the process).

As the second game starts we are sitting on the grassy berm in the outfield, behind the left field wall. The stadium is now empty, as both the school children and the elderly have left. This, I think to myself, is the essence of both baseball and America: the ball hitting leather, the crack of the bat, and the sun on your face. It brings you back to a simpler time…it is a time, judging by the empty stadium, that no one wants to remember. Perhaps a double header is too much; people have more important things to attend to…people must get on with their days and engage in the other American national pastime: shopping.

 

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An Empty Stadium But An Amazing Day. Image Courtesy of the Author.

 

The mascots come out to amuse the few fans that are left by throwing cheap plastic balls into the stands. My brother and I each catch an oversized plastic ball, sponsored by Wendy’s, and toss it around for a few minutes. I watch a young boy and girl, probably eight or nine years old, play with the same plastic ball which they had caught. It was shades of Jack and Diane, harkening back to a time when a plastic ball could amuse as much as an iphone. It reminded me of my own obsession with plastic footballs in Turkey as a kid, as Bryce Brentz heads to the plate to the tune of country music completing the theme of Americana.

The crack of the bat turns my attention back to the game It’s a line drive foul and the visiting team’s left fielder tosses the ball into the bullpen, and the bullpen pitcher tosses it up to us. My brother fields the ball and tosses it over to me, completing a different type of life cycle. I examine the Rawlings ball—the writing half smeared by the spot where the bat made contact. “Official International League Ball”. I feel the seams and turn it around in my hand. “Made in China”. I look at the plastic Wendy’s ball . . . “Made in China”.  I yell over to my brother: “Hey-the official game ball—and the fake ball—are both made in China. This is absurd!”

 

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Made In China. Images Courtesy of the Author.

 

At that the young kid—of Jack and Diane fame—asks to no one in particular (even though Diane is standing next to him) “Why is everything made in China?”. When even a nine-year old can ask the questions politicians can’t ask, you know we live in an absurd world. At least—in this classic American scene on an early summer’s day in the post-industrial Northeast—the home team won both games of the double header.