Oh what a celebration of American life this is! Above, the sky is a smooth, painted blue. Below,
Fresno baseball field spreads out, its perfect green turf and earthy red clay glowing brightly in the sunshine. Its emptiness is like a theatre stage before the play begins, waiting to be filled with bold characters, heavy with the anticipation of the drama soon to come. The sun slides down beside
Fresno’s tall, sturdy bank tower, dragging an eclipsing shadow slowly over this glorious field while the crowd slowly fills the seats around me.
There’s none of the pre-start surge which comes before other sports events. Instead everyone drifts in casually during the hours before the game, wandering around the stalls a little, settling into that leisurely pace that will dominate the evening. Work is done now, school is finished, and it’s time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the entertainment.
And unlike so many sporting events, this isn’t a crowd dominated by hooting, swaggering groups of men. It’s mostly families here, or young couples. Mothers try to calm kids who leap about restlessly, chucking baseballs back and forth. Fathers clutch at the tiny, anxious hands of young children dressed up in team shirts, their baseball caps pulled down over their small, excited faces.
I feel that this is the closest I’m going to get to seeing true average Americans. Here are the people who do the everyday jobs, who make up the bulk of the population, those behind the politicians and celebrities that are too often taken as representing this country. Looking around at the loose blue jeans and clean white sneakers, the glossy sports jackets and wide rimmed caps, I sense this shared appearance reflects a deeper set of shared beliefs.
These are the Americans who strongly believe their country is blessed by God, who believe in the value of suburban homes and safe places to raise a family, who believe in the importance of a hard days work. As they chat together, I see the easy way they relate to each other, confident that the people around will want to talk with them and will share their opinions on the world.
A little later they will stand together, taking their caps from their heads and staring sternly ahead, listening attentively as the national anthem is drawn out into an elaborate rhapsody. This isn’t the empty, habitual ritual I’ve often felt it to be at home in England. For these people, the patriotism of the lyrics resonates with the stirrings of their hearts.
Now a few of the Fresno players stroll out onto the field to warm up, their smart white uniforms brilliant against the green turf, their long shadows stretching beside them. Unlike the soccer teams in England, they haven’t allowed this uniform’s classical image to be tainted by sponsorship. Only the looping team- name stretches across their jerseys. I watch as a player twists his body, lifting his arms high, then flings the ball forwards through the air. The blurred white spot glides smoothly, hitting the receiver’s glove with a dull thud.
How many times this player must have thrown balls like that in his life, stretching right back to when he was a boy standing with his father in a small back yard, dreaming of playing in a great stadium. Now he throws instinctively, effortlessly, and young children watch him from the stands with widened eyes, the same dreams starting to form in their minds. Tonight the Fresno stadium seems full of such magic. Managing partner Chris Cumming has realized his dream of bringing the Giants here, returning the superstar to celebrate that family which nurtures it.
Speakers call out the names of the players, rattling out short bursts of music as they jog to line up on the field. The music seems carefully selected to emphasize the character of each player, helping to build them into distinctive, larger than life personalities. The crowd responds to this, cheering each individual separately, the tone and volume of each cheer demonstrating their attitudes to the different players.
I listen and try to decode this intimacy. Seeing the players all lined up, I’m struck by how diverse their ages and ethnicities are. In basketball you’ve really got to be tall, and for American football you need to be well built. One of the great things about baseball is anybody can play.
The spotlights twinkle softly into the dusk as the players spread out onto the field. The crowd gets a little quieter, people settling into their seats to watch the first ball. The pitcher shuffles his foot on the rust red circle of clay, finding his balance before staring fiercely at the target ahead. Turning his broad shoulders, he lifts his arms, the energy building in his body like twisted rubber. Then suddenly he uncoils – his arm swerving round and sending the ball surging forwards, streaking through the air and into the waiting glove.
The batter hardly seems to have a chance. He steps away, swinging his bat a little as though glumly considering the ball that has just swept past him, before returning to his position and shuffling into a determined stance. This time he connects and the ball flies forward. I think how amazing it must feel to stand and face a ball coming hard and fast like this, then to turn your broad shoulders and connect with it smoothly, watching for a moment as it goes soaring away. This is the moment you can become a hero, remembered in fans’ minds for evermore.
The ball loops up over a fielder, hitting the edge of the turf and bobbling over against the wall. The leisurely pace is broken and suddenly there’s activity all over the field. The batter is scrambling towards first base and at the same time a fielder is diving towards the ball. As the batter’s legs stretch forwards the ball soars through the air. The batter lunges forwards to safety and, just a fraction too late, the ball slams into the first baseman’s glove. I sense that it’s in these races, in these factions of a second, that games can really be won and lost.
After a flurry of early scoring, the game settles into a steady rhythm. The pitchers both fling balls forwards and the batters miss them, or sometimes knock them a little way, or clonk them out into the eager hands of nearby fielders. Only occasionally does a batter hit one well enough to buy time and stride forward to first base. Every now and then the sound system pipes out short notes which crescendo upwards, helping to increase the tension of this close, low scoring game. People in the crowd shuffle around restlessly, wandering off to buy food or to chat with other people they know.
For most people who come here, it seems like the action on the field is only part of the entertainment. Just as the European aristocracy once went to theatres to watch each other’s decadence, and as the rich in England go to the Ascot horse race to compare hats, the ball game is a social event. Yet rather than just a chance to observe each other’s habits, the game offers an opportunity to talk with friends, family, or event strangers, an opportunity to connect with the rest of society in that open friendly way which defines America.
I watch as a bulky lady perches on the edge of her plastic seat and chatters away to a man seven rows below, shouting loudly so that everyone around can hear what she’s saying. She sends her kids down to introduce themselves to him, explaining to the world that he’s a friend of hers from way back. A group of baseball capped young guys glug their beers, competing to describe the tortures of their work and to taunt each other gently. As I watch the different groups here, I sense that almost everyone around me knows each other, coming to the stadium each week to share news and spend time together. The action on the field sometimes seems secondary to this.
Also competing for people’s attention is the food. Walking into the stadium, I was struck by the amount of food being offered, with stalls almost everywhere I looked, all stacked up with supplies for the arriving hordes of hungry customers. By the time the first ball was thrown, a strong smoky smell of hot dogs was drifting across the stadium. Some of the people around me spent most of the game buying and eating different types of food and drink, wandering off after each inning and returning with a new tray full of food. Every now and then people would save them the walk, coming over with fluffy clouds of cotton candy bobbing above their heads or bags full of breadsticks. The ball game also celebrates that other great American trait – love of eating.
Yet, for all the eating and socializing, at the end of the day nothing can steal the show from the sport on the field. In the ninth, the scores are still close and the Grizzlies pitcher comes out with his head bowed by the knowledge that he can help his team snatch an unexpected victory. Shuffling his feet on the clay, he stares forward at the Giant’s batter with a scorching intensity. How right my friend was when he compared baseball to the gun fights of the Wild West. Looking down at the pitcher, I can almost see him standing in the middle of a dusty street, scrunching his eyes against the sun and focusing on the dark figure ahead.
With his legs wide, the pitcher Hraises his arms up slowly, his body winding up, coiling its power, then suddenly twisting back round to send the ball ripping through the air. I feel the force, the belief, pushing this ball on past the batter and into the welcoming glove of the catcher. Strike one! And now the pitcher’s confidence soars. He moves slowly, settling himself for the next ball, staring forwards fixedly. Again the ball tears away from his arm and slams even more emphatically into the glove. Strike two! One more strike and the game is won. The pitcher pauses for a moment. Perhaps feeling the eyes of the crowd fixed upon him. Then he’s moving again, his body twisting, his powerful arm surging forwards, and bam, the third strike wins it for the Grizzlies.
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