I made my third trip to The House That Beer Built yesterday, to witness the baseball equivalent of seeing a unicorn: namely Byrd besting Halladay in a pitching duel. To say that I did not expect it to go that way would be monumentally understating my expectations.
Judging from Byrd's body language every time he walked off the mound (from the 4th on, I figured he was done at the end of a particular inning), noone was having more fun than he.
Other things I saw:
BWags is smaller than he appears in the rearview mirror, but his arm has some life.
The gentleman who sits down and to the left of me, it turns out, is NOT DEAD. Or at least he wasn't yesterday. He has dropped a few lbs. and looks like he has had a tough summer, so good for him.
Finally, and this is the most mystical thing I saw there. I don't know if anybody has ever mentioned this, and probably Shank has written several columns about it, but I for one never noticed it. You know the mechanical scoreboard on The Wall? The one that lists the scores and the pitchers of the other games? Well, I looked over there yesterday, and one of the pitchers' numbers is not black on white, but black on white heavily smudged with red dirt. Intentionally and noticeably. It was Cleveland' No. 63, one J Masterson. Then I look at the Cincinnati number. Also heavily smudged with red dirt. Number 61, B. Arroyo. None others smudged.
It seems like it is a subtle tribute to FORMER Dirt Dogs now pitching for other teams.
Chillingly cool, if you ask me. Has anyone noticed that before? Am I the last slob to the party?
Anyways, I love baseball for lots of reasons, some of them having nothing to do with winning.