Long Beach Preview 2000...Part One

[felipe]

Report from Long Beach

The MBBA doormat, the ballclub called the Long Beach Surfers, have been so bad for so long, that this reporter decided to go check them out for a two week period, ingratiate myself into their everyday lives, live among them, (much like Jane Goddall and her chimps), to try and discern what makes them so bad, and what has made them so bad, for such a very long time. Is it just a by-product of living in Long Beach? Or Is it something far more sinister? For that matter, where is Long Beach? I decided to find out.

I traveled across the country from my job in Phoenix to Long Island NY to find the team, only to discover to my horror; Long Beach is in fact, not near Long Island. A mistake I’m sure that many have made in the past. Making the most out of a bad situation, I attended a hockey ‘match’ at Uniondale. The home side was as bad as the Surfers with somebody called Weekes tending goal, and something called an Isbister , and a hairball monikered as Czerkawski. I had an entire section to myself; needless to say, I nodded off, and awoke with the place empty and dark. Just like when I came into the building; and just like at a typical Surfer home game.

I decided to google Long Beach before setting off in my trusty Datsun for a second time, and discovered that Long Beach is actually on the other side of the county, just south of Los Angeles; who knew? Once in LA, and carefully navigating my way to their training complex, I artfully dodged the numerous homeless and transients shambling along the crowded inner city streets. Annddd…I ended up hitting quite a few with my car.

They are just too slow and numerous down there; it’s just like Michigan and all those deer. And just the same as the four-legged inhabitants of Michigan, they freeze in the oncoming headlights. It’s a real traffic hazard. I made a mental note to be sure to lodge a formal complaint once I located a precinct.

I finally arrived at the Surfer ballpark, seven days and two cross country trips into my journey. A beautiful, brand spanking new, ode to excess, rose slowly out of the gloom of smog. It kind of looked like I was in the sweet dewy fog of San Francisco, but no, a quickly made mistake of unrolling the car window confirmed that it was smog; dirty brown and angry looking, and chokingly dense. Actually, it was getting hard to breathe, even with the car windows rolled up; or even to see more than ten feet in front of me, for that matter.

Anyways, there it was, suddenly in front of me, a 50,000 seat Coliseum of broken dreams and faded memories. This place of absurd rare beauty, with its shining emerald fields, its bright white lines, its cascading outfield blue water falls, all while residing in a city with perhaps the worst pollution problem in the USA. All I could think was: who named this place of holiness, ‘Fry’s Surf City’?
As an aside, who names a team the Surfers in a city where the water is unsafe to swim in, because Metro LA dumps all its urban sewage directly into the harbour? The ‘Sewer Rats’ would seem far more appropriate…

I carefully put on my oxygen mask, making sure to check my tank was full before strapping it to my back, and emerged from my car, going in search of anyone who may be able to help point me in the right direction in my search to explain the sorry Long Beach plight.

I found long-time Long Beach second sacker, Brian Fantana, leaning against the stadium wall, furtively trying to catch his breath in order to climb the eight steps, leading to the player’s entrance only door. I took a final deep breath from my tank, and then handed my mask to him, enabling him to take 2 or 3 deep breaths before he signalled ‘O.K.’ and was able to sluggishly mount the stairs. I quickly followed and together we were soon able to breathe the clean filtered air of Surf City and to shut the door tight against the poisoned atmosphere outside.

Fantana has been with the Long Beach Surfers for 7, going on 8 long years. He’s enjoyed the heady heights of 1995, followed by the slowly spiralling depths of despair that the more recent seasons have brought him. He’s seen constant ownership upheaval, and constant poor performance on the field. Once original GM 7teen abdicated in early 1997, the team has steadily gone from poor to piss poor. One wonders how he finds the strength to carry on.

Q. Brian, coming over from Baltimore before the ’94 season, must have felt like a death sentence…
A. “No, not really, at the time, Long Beach were strong, really strong…and Baltimore…well…if you’ve ever spent any time in Baltimore…let’s just say you never would have asked that question…I mean, its about as bad as a place can get…”

Q. “Tell me about 1995...you really mashed the shit out of the ball, and you guys took made the playoffs, quite a story…”
A. “Yea, I really saw the ball well that year, playing with dudes like Ted Sale, O’Shea Jackson and Donnie Rotten, it was easy to learn…and when Rotten went down to injury, I was able to step in and take up the slack.”

Q. “And ’96? You guys go from the Championship series to 71-91. That must have hurt.”
A. “Well…I had a good year, led the team in at-bats and games and everything…”

Q. “Makes you wonder what the manager was thinking…playing you in front of guys like Jackson and Rotten…”
A. “Erm…”

Q. “Moving onto ’97, the team is getting worse, the original manager is MIA, there’s no apparent direction on your rudderless ship. You’ve cemented your hold as the starting second baseman on frankly, a terrible team, that’s now gone 66-96. You become a free agent. What the hell convinced you to re-sign? You could conceivably have gone somewhere else. Why return to this cess-pool? And then the indignity of being sent down to the minors in 1998! A 50 win team saw fit to play immortals like Verdo Incavaglia in front of you! You must have contemplated suicide at this point…”
A. “Well…to be fair I got injured, and I was focused on re-habbing my torn ankle ligaments. The stint in Sante Fe, really didn’t bother me.”

Q. “Yeah, a seven year veteran happily goes down to the minors? But anyways…now it’s the ’98 offseason, and you have another chance to leave, what is frankly a putrid team, that has recently disrespected you, and you…”
A. “Well, I sign up for another three years…”

Q. “You know, its players like you that give baseball players a bad name; you’re just a mercenary, happily collecting your cheque, no ambition at all, content to waste your career, in a cess pool like this.”
A. “I prefer to look at it as being loyal to my club, that we’re on our way back to the top; I’m gonna be here when we finally turn it around, and I’m gonna be proud.”

Q. “Yeah, because baseball teams are notorious for hanging on to their aging middle infielders, paying them well above what they can pay the next kid to stand in behind of second base. When your contract is up in 2001, you’re done, you’re Mr. Nobody again, trying to figure out what became off your dreams, and no one is gonna give a sweet damn what became of you. Can you hear that? That’s the pitter patter of Paco Torres’, Asbel Jiminez’ and Carl Gerhart’s little feet, coming to take your job away.”

To be continued…

[cramsey51]

Love it! Great read so far, can't wait for the continuation

[felipe]

After leaving the Surfers second baseman sobbing inconsolably in a puddle of his own tears, I began to worry about the effects that the Surf City’s canned air may be having on me. I’m not usually so quick to anger. The time was ripe to search the Long Beach stadium for a nice, calming, healthy smoothie, or barring that, a salty pretzel and a luke-warm beer. I could only hope that they had been trucked in from far away. The thought of drinking a smoothie whose ice content originated from the waters of San Pedro Bay is enough to terrify anyone.

While roaming the large clean empty corridors encircling the playing field, in search of sustenance, I came across new Long Beach catcher, Dave Nilsson, jogging around the concourse. His third time passing me, I reached out and grabbed his arm, and asked him to stop shaking the building to its foundation for a minute. He graciously nodded, and leaned against a support column with his massive arms folded across his chest. He looked like a goddamn blonde ape.

q. “Hey Dave, how do you like it here in Long Beach?”
A. “You know, it’s good to be wanted. I really like it here. They’ve given me a chance to grab the starting job, and I’m not going let go.”

Q. “Yeah, its been tough for you lately, being released by two different teams, in the same season, and before that, left hanging out to dry on waivers, all in the same calendar year…”

I noticed Big 6’3’’ 200 lb Aussie Dave’s eyes narrowing, so I cut quickly to the point…

Q. “er…so you must have been pleasantly surprised when Long Beach came at you with a three year offer for 7.2 million this off-season…especially at your age.”
A. “I’m still young, strong, I’m gonna kick some serious ass this year, mate.”

Q. “That’s not a knife, this is a knife,”I offered.
A. “What?”

Q. “Dingo got your baby?”
A. “Listen…”

Q. “Er…no, seriously, you must have been shocked to get that offer. You’ve never hit more than thirteen taters in a season, and you’re basically a career backup. You must have thought that your career was over when three, count ‘em, three, different teams basically threw you away like so much garbage last year. Then despite your obviously declining skills, in November, someone in the Long Beach front office, rings you up and offers you money to play, when all last season people had been paying you not to play! You must have been halfway back to Dingeroo or Auckland or wherever the hell you come from, when you got that call. Finished, washed up. A has-been. You must feel like you won the fucking lottery, when you got that call.”

Dave appeared stunned, and his eyes began to glass over.

“You’re mediocrity personified. You’re average hiding in an Aussie accent. Your fielding, your fielding is dreadful. Why are you running, just now? You’re the slowest man in professional baseball, that’s not ever gonna change, you should be out there taking fielding practice. You might get better at that, but I doubt it; look at your hands, they’re like two big paws, can you even wiggle those sausage fingers? How do you throw? How do you grip a bat with those things?”

Dave slowly slumped to the floor, holding his paws to his face. “It’s not my fault, I’m big,”he sobbed.

I backed away, disgusted with myself. It had been like teasing a defenceless muzzled circus bear, but I hadn’t been able to stop myself. My rage was being fuelled uncontrollably by something. But what?

To be continued…

[aaronweiner]

This is completely hilarious.

[recte44]

Best. Feature. Ever.

[7teen]

[jcrmoon42]

Bonus points for this one. I hope you manage to find time to interview each of the lovable losers on this squad. It is like "Major League 4: Surf's Up!" Seriously, I'm guessing some teams have better AAA squads than the scrubs I'm managing to put in the big leagues. Forced with decisions like, "Do I lose with a scrub like Salomon Bolanos, or do I lose with a slightly better scrub like Dave Nilsson?" If you're going to lose, you might as well try to enjoy it. Thus, Nilsson...one of my favorite RL players.

By the way, do they still make Datsuns? And can we please get players in the league named James Westfall and Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. Actually, we should rename the Long Beach stadium "The Octagon" in Fantana's honor.

[aaronweiner]

We HAVE a Dr. Kenneth Noisewater...in your division nonetheless.

Agreed on Westfall...

[scottsdale_joe]

Very different preview, to be sure.
Great reading!

[jcrmoon42]

We HAVE a Dr. Kenneth Noisewater...in your division nonetheless.

Agreed on Westfall...

Awesome...but shouldn't he be a second sacker?