I distinctly remember when the Civil War story Shenandoah came out in the summer of 1965, friends who witnessed it first held a unanimous opinion: it was one of the saddest movies they'd ever seen. I eventually saw it a few months after its release, and as much as I wanted to be impervious to the sorrow, reminding myself that it was only a film, it was impossible not to share my friends' evaluation. Fifty-three years later, a long enough period for me to have forgotten the plot details, I recently had an opportunity to see it for the second time. I guess old age has not desensitized me because the story's grief factor still registers high.
Jimmy Stewart plays a widowed farmer, Charlie Anderson, who owns hundreds of acres of prime real estate in the Commonwealth of Virginia. The year is 1863. Virginia is a key Confederate state and the scene of several important battlegrounds. The war is of no concern to Anderson for so long as neither side upsets his crop and cattle operation. Although he opposes slavery he certainly is not going to aid the Union, nor is he willing to direct any of his five adult sons, all of whom live on the farm, to join the Grays. Some of his fellow Virginians question his loyalty for failing to answer the cry of battle, but that does not faze Charlie in the least. When a Confederate platoon attempts to commandeer some of the Andersons' horses, Charlie and his sons run them off their land.
The big household includes two women, daughter Jennie (Rosemary Forsyth), the best tracker and sharpshooter of the bunch, and daughter-in-law Ann (Katharine Ross), who becomes a new mother. Forsyth and Ross make their film debuts here, with Ross going on to fame two years later as Elaine in the blockbuster, The Graduate. Charlie also has a younger son whom everyone refers to as "the Boy." He is played by sixteen year old Philip Alford, better known to audiences as Jem, the son of Atticus Finch in 1962's To Kill A Mockingbird. Finally we have Sam (Doug McClure), the gentlemanly new husband of Jennie. Unlike Jennie's five adult brothers, Sam is proud to serve his native state as an officer in the Confederate army.
I was very impressed by the cinematography of William Clothier, who convincingly makes western Oregon, the actual shooting locale, appear as Virginia. On the flip side, the work of director Andrew McLaglen falls short. There are too many scenes which are simply too hokey, and the last scene was pure Hollywood. Shenandoah was the first and most commercially successful of four movies directed by McLaglen starring Stewart. Although I generally like him as an actor, Jimmy's performance in this film employs the same mannerisms and voice inflections that he'd been using for the previous thirty years of his career. I found it to be a little stale. For a taste of what I'm writing about, check out a Youtube video of comedian Rich Little's impersonation of the famous leading man.
Shenandoah addresses some issues which were germane not only to the Civil War but also to the United States' involvement in the Viet Nam War, which involvement was relatively new at the time of the film's release. Some of those issues are the senseless human cost of war, the disparity in treatment of the wealthy and the poor, and the inexplicable reluctance of one army to surrender or at least bargain for a conditional peace once it becomes obvious there remains no hope of winning.
Viewers who can't resist predicting outcomes of certain stories will probably figure that not all of the huge Anderson clan are going to survive to the bitter end. They would be right, although most remain unscathed until the final half-hour or so.
***
Here are the movies I watched on the small screen during the second quarter of 2018. There's only one clunker out of the eight, so not a bad run.
1. The Big Chill (1983 dramedy; When one of their former college friends commits suicide, a group of five forty-somethings reunite to pay their respects, then spend the rest of the weekend hanging out as guests of married classmates Kevin Kline and Glenn Close, getting reacquainted, listening to the soundtrack of their lives, and wondering what went wrong.) A-
2. Breakthrough (1950 war drama; Lieutenant John Agar, with help from Sergeant Frank Lovejoy and under the command of Captain David Brian, leads an infantry platoon across France in World War II.) B
3. George Harrison: Living In The Material World (2011 documentary which chronicles the life of the Beatles' lead guitarist, with a concentration on how Eastern culture influenced his song writing and musicianship.) B+
4. The Magnificent Ambersons (1942 drama; As a young man Joseph Cotton's marriage proposal is rejected by Dolores Costello, but after a twenty year gap their relationship rekindles over the objections of her son, Tim Holt.) C-
5. Molly's Game (2017 drama; Jessica Chastain is a sexy, shrewd and smart young woman who postpones law school so she can learn the craft of running extremely high stakes poker games, invitation only, for multi-millionaires on both coasts.) A-
6. Platoon (1986 war drama; Charlie Sheen is a private who dropped out of college and volunteered for combat, now assigned to a platoon in Viet Nam with internal conflicting allegiances between two sergeants, Tom Berenger and Willem Dafoe.) A-
7. Shenandoah (1965 war drama; Jimmy Stewart, a Virginia farmer, wants no part of the Civil War until it directly affects his large family.) B+
8. Two For The Road (1967 comedy; Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn have a relationship which, over a dozen years, does not have the same pizzaz as when they were crossing France as young lovers on an extended road trip.) C+
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
Kernels In The Cornfields
Would you consider driving over 550 miles round trip to see a minor league baseball game? I did it a couple of years ago, and I liked it so much I did it again late last month. The lowest level of minor league ball, other than the rookie leagues, is Class A. The Minnesota Twins franchise owns two minor league teams which play at the Class A (usually called "single A") level, the Fort Myers Miracle and the Cedar Rapids Kernels. Cedar Rapids, the second largest city in Iowa, is an easy drive, a shade over four hours from Minneapolis. The Kernels play in Perfect Game Field at Veterans' Memorial Stadium.
The first thing you'll notice at Veterans' Memorial is that the large parking lot adjacent to the stadium is free. Of course that would be unheard of at any MLB venue. The second surprise is the price of tickets. Thirteen dollars gets you the best seat in the house, but if that's too rich for your blood, nine bucks puts you barely past the dugouts on the lower level. Even cheaper is the popular lawn seating area along the left field line. The stadium also features a faux "green monster," Fenway Park-style, with a few dozen seats perched above.
While we're on the subject of costs, you'd be hard pressed to find a meal over six dollars or a beer over five. Proud of myself for recognizing a good meal deal when I saw one, I ate two: a juicy hot dog upon arrival, and a tasty burrito in the top of the fifth. I had to save funnel cakes and barbeque for another time.
I never found Iowans to be a particularly congenial bunch at sporting events involving the Gophers, but here it was a different story. The staff at Veterans' Memorial was extraordinarily friendly. Maybe they were Minnesota expats(?). From the ticket sellers to the vendors to the ushers and other security, every one was either a genuinely welcoming host or else a good thespian. A tip of the hat to the Kernels' personnel honchos for hiring those folks.
Minnesota prides itself on its craft beer, but you'd hardly know it at Target Field where a thirsty fan has to look high and low to find a decent brew. The Twins beverage operations managers could (and should) take a lesson from the Cedar Rapidians. There were at least three separate draught beer stands offering first class options behind the infield seats. That's pretty good when you consider the stadium only holds 5300 fans. The vendor closest to the main gate carried Laguinitas IPA, New Belgium Brewing Fat Tire, Odell's 90 Shilling, Dogfish Head's 90 Minute IPA, Fresh Squeezed by Deschutes, and Bell's Oberon. Another directly behind the plate had many of the same pours, plus Burnout Brown from Firetrucker Brewery in Ankeny. Down the first base line was Craft Beer Cabin where two of Iowa's favorite micro breweries were represented, Millstone Brewery from Amana, and Big Grove Brewery of Iowa City. Vets' Memorial was a veritable beer drinkers' paradise.
I almost forgot the main reason to make the journey was to watch some baseball. The first thing I check when attending a minor league game is the player roster bios, including age, home town, last year's team, and how the player was acquired by the Twins' franchise. I did the same for the Kernels' opponent, the Beloit Snappers, an affiliate of the Oakland A's. Since Class A is professional baseball's lowest level, it stands to reason that a Class A roster would be comprised of very young players. The Kernels' ten man starting lineup included three teenagers and two other players who were twenty years of age. The old man of the group was first baseman Robby Rinn, a hoary twenty-five year old.
I am pretty excited for these kids who, just like me, dreamed of playing Major League Baseball some day. (I saw myself as the heir apparent to the Milwaukee Braves' slugging third baseman, Eddie Mathews.) The difference, besides the obvious disparity in talent, is that these ballers are actually doing something about it. They are gambling that they will climb the minor league ladder and rise to The Bigs before their prime years (usually ages 27-32) have come and gone. Meanwhile, they toil in obscurity, take long bus rides, risk debilitating injury which could delay or even end their career, and hope that they don't suffer through a dreaded slump which could result in other young players passing them by with promotions to higher levels.
Most minor league baseball players turn pro immediately out of high school. Unlike many college players who have their degrees to fall back on if things don't work out on the diamond, the Kernels and other minor leaguers made one of the most important decisions of their professional lives at age seventeen or eighteen. They have undoubtedly seen the statistics showing that less than 3% of all minor leaguers and college players will ever play for one of the thirty MLB teams. I wonder if they ever get discouraged when they see players like Bryce Harper of the Washington Nationals or the Cleveland Indians' Francisco Lindor reach the Majors at ages nineteen and twenty-one, respectively. Those two All Stars are rare exceptions to the rule.
The level of play, even for single A, is way above average. These guys are definitely not kicking the ball around; for the most part it is a cleanly-played game. The Kernels' second baseman, Andrew Bechtold, reminded me of Brian Dozier with his slick glove work. Too bad Andrew is hitting only .214, not nearly enough to be in line for a promotion. I witnessed power pitching from the Kernels' starter, Edwar Colina. He is a twenty-one year old Venezuelan who, as an undrafted free agent, played for the Twins' rookie league team in Elizabethton, Tennessee last year. He threw low to mid-nineties for six frames the night I saw him in person, averaging more than a strikeout per inning. Sure he was facing Class A batters, but after watching the mediocre Twins' bullpen in action this season, I wonder if Edwar should be given a shot with the big team in the next year or two.
The Kernels player drawing the most fan interest for the first half of this season was shortstop Royce Lewis, the Twins' most recent first round draft choice. Only nineteen years old, Royce was signed to a $6.7 million contract last year out of high school in San Juan Capistrano, California. When I saw him in June he was the only Kernel batting above .300, at .303. The Twins see Royce as a five tool player. They have him on a fast track as proven by his elevation last week to their higher level Class A farm team, the Fort Myers Miracle.
Lewis is thus following in the footsteps of the Twins' 2016 first round draft selection, outfielder Alex Kiriloff. Alex, a Plum, Pennsylvania native, was also signed out of high school as the fifteenth overall pick. His contract was for $2.8 million, not nearly as much as Lewis, but still a little more than I made at the Piggly Wiggly my senior year. Unfortunately for me, by the time I was able to get down to Cedar Rapids, Alex had already been promoted to the Miracle, where he has hardly missed a beat. His batting average with the Kernels was .333; so far with the Miracle it's .317. By the year 2021, and maybe 2020, I will not need to travel to Florida to watch Lewis and Kiriloff; they should be six miles away at Target Field.
The first thing you'll notice at Veterans' Memorial is that the large parking lot adjacent to the stadium is free. Of course that would be unheard of at any MLB venue. The second surprise is the price of tickets. Thirteen dollars gets you the best seat in the house, but if that's too rich for your blood, nine bucks puts you barely past the dugouts on the lower level. Even cheaper is the popular lawn seating area along the left field line. The stadium also features a faux "green monster," Fenway Park-style, with a few dozen seats perched above.
While we're on the subject of costs, you'd be hard pressed to find a meal over six dollars or a beer over five. Proud of myself for recognizing a good meal deal when I saw one, I ate two: a juicy hot dog upon arrival, and a tasty burrito in the top of the fifth. I had to save funnel cakes and barbeque for another time.
I never found Iowans to be a particularly congenial bunch at sporting events involving the Gophers, but here it was a different story. The staff at Veterans' Memorial was extraordinarily friendly. Maybe they were Minnesota expats(?). From the ticket sellers to the vendors to the ushers and other security, every one was either a genuinely welcoming host or else a good thespian. A tip of the hat to the Kernels' personnel honchos for hiring those folks.
Minnesota prides itself on its craft beer, but you'd hardly know it at Target Field where a thirsty fan has to look high and low to find a decent brew. The Twins beverage operations managers could (and should) take a lesson from the Cedar Rapidians. There were at least three separate draught beer stands offering first class options behind the infield seats. That's pretty good when you consider the stadium only holds 5300 fans. The vendor closest to the main gate carried Laguinitas IPA, New Belgium Brewing Fat Tire, Odell's 90 Shilling, Dogfish Head's 90 Minute IPA, Fresh Squeezed by Deschutes, and Bell's Oberon. Another directly behind the plate had many of the same pours, plus Burnout Brown from Firetrucker Brewery in Ankeny. Down the first base line was Craft Beer Cabin where two of Iowa's favorite micro breweries were represented, Millstone Brewery from Amana, and Big Grove Brewery of Iowa City. Vets' Memorial was a veritable beer drinkers' paradise.
I almost forgot the main reason to make the journey was to watch some baseball. The first thing I check when attending a minor league game is the player roster bios, including age, home town, last year's team, and how the player was acquired by the Twins' franchise. I did the same for the Kernels' opponent, the Beloit Snappers, an affiliate of the Oakland A's. Since Class A is professional baseball's lowest level, it stands to reason that a Class A roster would be comprised of very young players. The Kernels' ten man starting lineup included three teenagers and two other players who were twenty years of age. The old man of the group was first baseman Robby Rinn, a hoary twenty-five year old.
I am pretty excited for these kids who, just like me, dreamed of playing Major League Baseball some day. (I saw myself as the heir apparent to the Milwaukee Braves' slugging third baseman, Eddie Mathews.) The difference, besides the obvious disparity in talent, is that these ballers are actually doing something about it. They are gambling that they will climb the minor league ladder and rise to The Bigs before their prime years (usually ages 27-32) have come and gone. Meanwhile, they toil in obscurity, take long bus rides, risk debilitating injury which could delay or even end their career, and hope that they don't suffer through a dreaded slump which could result in other young players passing them by with promotions to higher levels.
Most minor league baseball players turn pro immediately out of high school. Unlike many college players who have their degrees to fall back on if things don't work out on the diamond, the Kernels and other minor leaguers made one of the most important decisions of their professional lives at age seventeen or eighteen. They have undoubtedly seen the statistics showing that less than 3% of all minor leaguers and college players will ever play for one of the thirty MLB teams. I wonder if they ever get discouraged when they see players like Bryce Harper of the Washington Nationals or the Cleveland Indians' Francisco Lindor reach the Majors at ages nineteen and twenty-one, respectively. Those two All Stars are rare exceptions to the rule.
The level of play, even for single A, is way above average. These guys are definitely not kicking the ball around; for the most part it is a cleanly-played game. The Kernels' second baseman, Andrew Bechtold, reminded me of Brian Dozier with his slick glove work. Too bad Andrew is hitting only .214, not nearly enough to be in line for a promotion. I witnessed power pitching from the Kernels' starter, Edwar Colina. He is a twenty-one year old Venezuelan who, as an undrafted free agent, played for the Twins' rookie league team in Elizabethton, Tennessee last year. He threw low to mid-nineties for six frames the night I saw him in person, averaging more than a strikeout per inning. Sure he was facing Class A batters, but after watching the mediocre Twins' bullpen in action this season, I wonder if Edwar should be given a shot with the big team in the next year or two.
The Kernels player drawing the most fan interest for the first half of this season was shortstop Royce Lewis, the Twins' most recent first round draft choice. Only nineteen years old, Royce was signed to a $6.7 million contract last year out of high school in San Juan Capistrano, California. When I saw him in June he was the only Kernel batting above .300, at .303. The Twins see Royce as a five tool player. They have him on a fast track as proven by his elevation last week to their higher level Class A farm team, the Fort Myers Miracle.
Lewis is thus following in the footsteps of the Twins' 2016 first round draft selection, outfielder Alex Kiriloff. Alex, a Plum, Pennsylvania native, was also signed out of high school as the fifteenth overall pick. His contract was for $2.8 million, not nearly as much as Lewis, but still a little more than I made at the Piggly Wiggly my senior year. Unfortunately for me, by the time I was able to get down to Cedar Rapids, Alex had already been promoted to the Miracle, where he has hardly missed a beat. His batting average with the Kernels was .333; so far with the Miracle it's .317. By the year 2021, and maybe 2020, I will not need to travel to Florida to watch Lewis and Kiriloff; they should be six miles away at Target Field.
Friday, June 29, 2018
Movie Review: "Hearts Beat Loud"
"Hearts Beat Loud": B+. It's fathers like Frank Fisher who make the rest of us inferior dads look bad. Thankfully he is only a fictional character in writer-director Brett Haley's newest film, Hearts Beat Loud. For starters, Frank is cool, a mantle which I used to assume for myself until Momma Cuandito and I had teenagers to raise. Not only was Frank a guitarist in a long-haired rock band in his younger days, but he still plays proficiently. For seventeen years he has operated a (mostly) vinyl record shop in the trendy Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn, a way for him to keep connected to the '80's and '90's music he loves. As a single parent of eighteen year old Samantha, he has done quite well. Samantha recently finished high school with grades high enough to gain admission to UCLA's pre-med program. She has a beautiful singing voice and is a talented keyboard player with a knack for setting some of her poetry to music, an endeavor encouraged with gusto by Frank.
Most importantly, there is a father-daughter bond which seems almost too good to be true. Frank is a pretty good listener, and as a result Sam has actual conversations with him. Most dads would not pull their reluctant child away from her studies for the purpose of participating in their daily "jam sesh." Frank has even set up a mini-recording studio in their apartment. When Frank talks Samantha into demonstrating for him a new song she's written, he decides what they really need to bring it to the next level is an electronic sampler, which he immediately purchases in time for the next day's sesh. There's not much Frank wouldn't do for his only child. When she breaks her midnight curfew and doesn't come home until 2:30 a.m., does he chew her out? No way. He barely raises an eyebrow when she uses that moment to come out of the closet. "Next time call, or at least text, if you're going to be late," is the only scolding he can muster.
Nick Offerman is a perfect fit as the teddy bear father. Kiersey Nicole Clemons is a twenty-four year old actress who has no problem filling the role of Sam. Although the father-daughter connection, together with the music they make, is the central force propelling the story, there are enough side bars, populated with three well known actors and one newcomer, to bridge the gaps. Two of those diversions are the complicated respective love interests of Frank and Sam. Frank isn't actually dating Leslie (the versatile Toni Collette); they are more like good friends. But she also happens to be his landlord, and the record shop has a serious cash flow problem. Sam's romantic connection is with Rose (Sasha Lane). Unlike Sam, who plans to spend the next four years -- and maybe the rest of her life -- in L.A., Rose's future is less glamorous, destined to remain in Red Hook. The most heart-tugging line of the film is rendered by Rose in the final act.
Frank's sounding board is Dave, the barkeep at the neighborhood saloon where Frank spends many an evening. In a bit of brilliant casting, Ted Danson plays the wise, advice-giving Dave. Unlike Danson's character in Cheers, the reformed alcoholic Sam Malone who swore off drinking, Dave is more than willing to share a bump with his good friend Frank. Dave's ambition is to return to Woodstock so he can smoke dope and relive his experience at the famous 1969 concert.
Blythe Danner (or as I like to call her, Chris Martin's former mother-in law) has a minor part as Frank's mother, Marianne, who is reaching the point where her days of independent living are numbered. This adds another level of concern for Frank as the revenue from his shop is not paying the bills. Her scenes with granddaughter Sam provide more warmth to an already sweet story.
When Frank and Sam create a song which Frank judges to be a potential hit, he submits it to Spotify without Sam's knowledge, identifying the artist as "We're Not A Band." It turns out Frank's prediction proves accurate, so now what? There may be endless possibilities, but most of us know how it will shake out. Nevertheless, it's hard not to like this movie. I'm even willing to give it a B+ notwithstanding the grammatical error in its title.
Most importantly, there is a father-daughter bond which seems almost too good to be true. Frank is a pretty good listener, and as a result Sam has actual conversations with him. Most dads would not pull their reluctant child away from her studies for the purpose of participating in their daily "jam sesh." Frank has even set up a mini-recording studio in their apartment. When Frank talks Samantha into demonstrating for him a new song she's written, he decides what they really need to bring it to the next level is an electronic sampler, which he immediately purchases in time for the next day's sesh. There's not much Frank wouldn't do for his only child. When she breaks her midnight curfew and doesn't come home until 2:30 a.m., does he chew her out? No way. He barely raises an eyebrow when she uses that moment to come out of the closet. "Next time call, or at least text, if you're going to be late," is the only scolding he can muster.
Nick Offerman is a perfect fit as the teddy bear father. Kiersey Nicole Clemons is a twenty-four year old actress who has no problem filling the role of Sam. Although the father-daughter connection, together with the music they make, is the central force propelling the story, there are enough side bars, populated with three well known actors and one newcomer, to bridge the gaps. Two of those diversions are the complicated respective love interests of Frank and Sam. Frank isn't actually dating Leslie (the versatile Toni Collette); they are more like good friends. But she also happens to be his landlord, and the record shop has a serious cash flow problem. Sam's romantic connection is with Rose (Sasha Lane). Unlike Sam, who plans to spend the next four years -- and maybe the rest of her life -- in L.A., Rose's future is less glamorous, destined to remain in Red Hook. The most heart-tugging line of the film is rendered by Rose in the final act.
Frank's sounding board is Dave, the barkeep at the neighborhood saloon where Frank spends many an evening. In a bit of brilliant casting, Ted Danson plays the wise, advice-giving Dave. Unlike Danson's character in Cheers, the reformed alcoholic Sam Malone who swore off drinking, Dave is more than willing to share a bump with his good friend Frank. Dave's ambition is to return to Woodstock so he can smoke dope and relive his experience at the famous 1969 concert.
Blythe Danner (or as I like to call her, Chris Martin's former mother-in law) has a minor part as Frank's mother, Marianne, who is reaching the point where her days of independent living are numbered. This adds another level of concern for Frank as the revenue from his shop is not paying the bills. Her scenes with granddaughter Sam provide more warmth to an already sweet story.
When Frank and Sam create a song which Frank judges to be a potential hit, he submits it to Spotify without Sam's knowledge, identifying the artist as "We're Not A Band." It turns out Frank's prediction proves accurate, so now what? There may be endless possibilities, but most of us know how it will shake out. Nevertheless, it's hard not to like this movie. I'm even willing to give it a B+ notwithstanding the grammatical error in its title.
Friday, June 22, 2018
Concert Moments
Last Friday night the intimate Warming House in south Minneapolis presented a concert featuring two bands. Intuitive Compass, a southern Oregon duo, opened for Resonant Rougues, a quartet calling Ashville, North Carolina its home. The first band's website describes its roots as "vaudevillion folk music," while the latter claims influences by Appalachian classic and early New Orleans jazz, among others.
The style of Intuitive Compass fit perfectly with the ambiance of Warming House. The venue is on the basement level of an old building on 40th and Bryant. The theater's capacity is less than fifty, and the acoustics are near-perfect. In this no-frills setting, the thoughtful lyrics of Compass' music could not only be heard but digested as well. Curiously, the band did not reveal the title of most of their selections until they had finished playing each song.
Aurelia Anne Cohen's work on the accordion evoked a beat and style reminiscent of the Decemberists. In front of her on the floor were five bells. I was amused and slightly distracted by watching her tap one or more bells at various times throughout several songs. I found myself guessing when she would ring a bell, and whether just one or several consecutively.
Compass has played throughout the country, but focuses on the Northwest. I can't blame Cohen or her partner, guitarist Jason Dea West, for name dropping the The Violent Femmes and Trampled By Turtles, two well known bands for which Compass is opening this month.
My only knock on Intuitive Compass is that they could have used more variety in tempo. Tempo variety was not a problem, however, with Resonant Rogues whose co-leader Sparrow, an effervescent personality with an exquisite voice, started her band's set on the accordion but then switched to banjo a few tunes in. The Rogues are real troubadours who have been all over the US and Europe. At least a couple of their songs were written while they were in the Balkans and northern Turkey, soaking up the culture of the locals. This was their second visit to Warming House, and the last of four gigs for which they paired with Intuitive Compass.
Between visits to Minneapolis, Sparrow married co-leader Keith J. Smith, a guitarist who multi-tasked with percussion via a foot pedal which he played with his heel. The band was headed to South Dakota that night after the show, with Alaska being their ultimate destination. The Rogues' sound was smartly completed with a stand-up bass and a superbly talented violinist, Kristen Elaine, who is a former bandmate of our good buddy, Tony Cipolle, from their Whiskey Chasers days. According to Tony's dad, Admiral Bob, Kristen is classically trained but currently prefers life in a traveling folk band "because it's more fun."
The highlight of the evening was the occurrence of a Moment, one of perhaps only seven or eight in the history of my concert-going experiences. An explanation follows.
***
Every once in awhile I've been lucky enough to attend a concert when I realized during a song, "This is a Moment that is going to stay with me forever." I first came to this realization in high school when I saw the Ronettes live in the Minot Municipal Auditorium, circa 1964. They were one of the headliners in a lineup of about ten popular '60's groups to perform in the Magic City that night. Each group sang four or five songs. The bands that preceded the Ronettes were well received, but nothing out of the ordinary. Then the Ronettes, three sexy biracial chicks from New York in tight, red hip-hugging dresses, spiked high heel shoes, plenty of mascara and big hair took the stage. Culture shock on the tundra! All of a sudden, what seemed like every airman from nearby Minot Air Force Base was on his feet, going wild. Their excitement was contagious, and the clamor in the audience drowned out the girls' opener, Baby I Love You, and the rest of the trio's other offerings.
Going back to my college days, I remember standing ten feet away from my favorite South Bend band, the MRQ, who launched into a cover of the Hollies' Look Through Any Window. Another Moment! They totally nailed the Mancunians' three part harmony, together with a perfect replication of the guitar parts and drums. This sounds like hyperbole, but believe me when I say that the MRQ is the best live cover band I have ever seen; maybe the best live band, period. Every time they played on campus, usually in Stepan Center (dubbed by Paul Stookey the "Big Popcorn Shaker"), I made it a point to see them. MRQ was a tribute band before the term gained wider acceptance. Their specialty was primarily hits and deep cuts by the Hollies, and secondarily the Byrds and Beatles. They're also responsible for my becoming a life-long Hollies fan (and a Bobby Elliott wanna be).
I still remember the first time I heard those Florida rednecks, Lynyrd Skynyrd, rip into Gimme Three Steps. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to curl even before the instrumental intro was completed. I'm guessing the year was 1987. I am not a huge Skynyrd fan, but since then I've paid to see them two other times just for the sheer joy of hearing them perform that one song. No wonder it's on Pud's Plethora Of Platinum!
An almost identical experience transpired with Styx, a Chicago band I have always liked going back to the days when Dennis DeYoung was lead singer on over half the group's repertoire. Their song which absolutely grabs me is Blue Collar Man. I have seen Styx four or five times over a span of four decades, and twice they opened with "my song." Did they know I was in the crowd? Do they know Blue Collar Man is Track # 1 on Pud's Plethora?
In the eighties, Anne Murray dedicated her hit Can I Have This Dance to a young man sitting in the second deck of the Met Center who was about to propose to his girlfriend. When Anne finished the song, she called out to him, "What did she say?" He yelled back, "She said 'Yes!'" Nine thousand fans erupted with a standing O. Suddenly there was a speck of dust in my eye.
Although I was not fortunate enough to see the Beatles in concert, I did see both Paul McCartney as a solo, post-Beatles and post-Wings act, and Ringo Star with his first All Star Band. One Moment from the McCartney show stands out. It was in the mid-eighties when Paul was in the midst of cranking out five albums in a seven year span. My recollection is as follows. Because Paul was touring in support of a recently released solo album, his set list was weighted in favor of new songs. That was probably acceptable to the younger fans in attendance, but it really wasn't what baby boomers most wanted to hear. The first twenty-five minutes or so were a mixture of Wings gems and newer stuff. Then, it happened, the Moment. Everyone in the packed house recognized the first couple of notes from the Beatles' song, Drive My Car, and the place erupted. The Fab Four may have ceased to exist over a decade before, but that's the material we most wanted to hear. For the remainder of the night, the phenomenon of early recognition of Beatles tunes repeated. We could not get enough of the Mop Tops, even though there was only one of them on stage.
So, now we are back to the present. Ticket Master, public drunkenness and, as I get older, my lower level of tolerance for boorish behavior -- I'm talking to you, Mister Let's Make A Video Of Every Song With My Cell Phone Raised Above My Head Guy -- have caused me to severely reduce my live music experiences, especially in connection with nationally famous artists. Thus it has been many years since my last Moment; that is, until Friday night. When Resonant Rogues played Coco, I knew right then and there a Moment was underway.
Coco came about two-thirds of the way through the set. The Rogues had already won over the crowd with their sublime craftsmanship, the vignettes preceding many of the songs, the smart mix of slow and bouncy tunes, the solo instrumental snippets by each of the quartet's members, and especially the winning personality of Sparrow. As she sang Coco in what struck my layman's ears as beautiful French, I felt almost transported to Parisian streets. I immediately recalled the French film Amelie, starring Audrey Tautou. Both Sparrow and the character Amelie have that mischievous mannerism, a twinkle of the eye and a sweet smile to go with a kind spirit. I had only a vague idea of what the song was about, but it didn't matter.
If someday Resonant Rogues comes back for a third visit, I'd like to see them again, with the hope they reprise Coco. In the meantime, maybe I'll take up French.
The style of Intuitive Compass fit perfectly with the ambiance of Warming House. The venue is on the basement level of an old building on 40th and Bryant. The theater's capacity is less than fifty, and the acoustics are near-perfect. In this no-frills setting, the thoughtful lyrics of Compass' music could not only be heard but digested as well. Curiously, the band did not reveal the title of most of their selections until they had finished playing each song.
Aurelia Anne Cohen's work on the accordion evoked a beat and style reminiscent of the Decemberists. In front of her on the floor were five bells. I was amused and slightly distracted by watching her tap one or more bells at various times throughout several songs. I found myself guessing when she would ring a bell, and whether just one or several consecutively.
Compass has played throughout the country, but focuses on the Northwest. I can't blame Cohen or her partner, guitarist Jason Dea West, for name dropping the The Violent Femmes and Trampled By Turtles, two well known bands for which Compass is opening this month.
My only knock on Intuitive Compass is that they could have used more variety in tempo. Tempo variety was not a problem, however, with Resonant Rogues whose co-leader Sparrow, an effervescent personality with an exquisite voice, started her band's set on the accordion but then switched to banjo a few tunes in. The Rogues are real troubadours who have been all over the US and Europe. At least a couple of their songs were written while they were in the Balkans and northern Turkey, soaking up the culture of the locals. This was their second visit to Warming House, and the last of four gigs for which they paired with Intuitive Compass.
Between visits to Minneapolis, Sparrow married co-leader Keith J. Smith, a guitarist who multi-tasked with percussion via a foot pedal which he played with his heel. The band was headed to South Dakota that night after the show, with Alaska being their ultimate destination. The Rogues' sound was smartly completed with a stand-up bass and a superbly talented violinist, Kristen Elaine, who is a former bandmate of our good buddy, Tony Cipolle, from their Whiskey Chasers days. According to Tony's dad, Admiral Bob, Kristen is classically trained but currently prefers life in a traveling folk band "because it's more fun."
The highlight of the evening was the occurrence of a Moment, one of perhaps only seven or eight in the history of my concert-going experiences. An explanation follows.
***
Every once in awhile I've been lucky enough to attend a concert when I realized during a song, "This is a Moment that is going to stay with me forever." I first came to this realization in high school when I saw the Ronettes live in the Minot Municipal Auditorium, circa 1964. They were one of the headliners in a lineup of about ten popular '60's groups to perform in the Magic City that night. Each group sang four or five songs. The bands that preceded the Ronettes were well received, but nothing out of the ordinary. Then the Ronettes, three sexy biracial chicks from New York in tight, red hip-hugging dresses, spiked high heel shoes, plenty of mascara and big hair took the stage. Culture shock on the tundra! All of a sudden, what seemed like every airman from nearby Minot Air Force Base was on his feet, going wild. Their excitement was contagious, and the clamor in the audience drowned out the girls' opener, Baby I Love You, and the rest of the trio's other offerings.
Going back to my college days, I remember standing ten feet away from my favorite South Bend band, the MRQ, who launched into a cover of the Hollies' Look Through Any Window. Another Moment! They totally nailed the Mancunians' three part harmony, together with a perfect replication of the guitar parts and drums. This sounds like hyperbole, but believe me when I say that the MRQ is the best live cover band I have ever seen; maybe the best live band, period. Every time they played on campus, usually in Stepan Center (dubbed by Paul Stookey the "Big Popcorn Shaker"), I made it a point to see them. MRQ was a tribute band before the term gained wider acceptance. Their specialty was primarily hits and deep cuts by the Hollies, and secondarily the Byrds and Beatles. They're also responsible for my becoming a life-long Hollies fan (and a Bobby Elliott wanna be).
I still remember the first time I heard those Florida rednecks, Lynyrd Skynyrd, rip into Gimme Three Steps. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to curl even before the instrumental intro was completed. I'm guessing the year was 1987. I am not a huge Skynyrd fan, but since then I've paid to see them two other times just for the sheer joy of hearing them perform that one song. No wonder it's on Pud's Plethora Of Platinum!
An almost identical experience transpired with Styx, a Chicago band I have always liked going back to the days when Dennis DeYoung was lead singer on over half the group's repertoire. Their song which absolutely grabs me is Blue Collar Man. I have seen Styx four or five times over a span of four decades, and twice they opened with "my song." Did they know I was in the crowd? Do they know Blue Collar Man is Track # 1 on Pud's Plethora?
In the eighties, Anne Murray dedicated her hit Can I Have This Dance to a young man sitting in the second deck of the Met Center who was about to propose to his girlfriend. When Anne finished the song, she called out to him, "What did she say?" He yelled back, "She said 'Yes!'" Nine thousand fans erupted with a standing O. Suddenly there was a speck of dust in my eye.
Although I was not fortunate enough to see the Beatles in concert, I did see both Paul McCartney as a solo, post-Beatles and post-Wings act, and Ringo Star with his first All Star Band. One Moment from the McCartney show stands out. It was in the mid-eighties when Paul was in the midst of cranking out five albums in a seven year span. My recollection is as follows. Because Paul was touring in support of a recently released solo album, his set list was weighted in favor of new songs. That was probably acceptable to the younger fans in attendance, but it really wasn't what baby boomers most wanted to hear. The first twenty-five minutes or so were a mixture of Wings gems and newer stuff. Then, it happened, the Moment. Everyone in the packed house recognized the first couple of notes from the Beatles' song, Drive My Car, and the place erupted. The Fab Four may have ceased to exist over a decade before, but that's the material we most wanted to hear. For the remainder of the night, the phenomenon of early recognition of Beatles tunes repeated. We could not get enough of the Mop Tops, even though there was only one of them on stage.
So, now we are back to the present. Ticket Master, public drunkenness and, as I get older, my lower level of tolerance for boorish behavior -- I'm talking to you, Mister Let's Make A Video Of Every Song With My Cell Phone Raised Above My Head Guy -- have caused me to severely reduce my live music experiences, especially in connection with nationally famous artists. Thus it has been many years since my last Moment; that is, until Friday night. When Resonant Rogues played Coco, I knew right then and there a Moment was underway.
Coco came about two-thirds of the way through the set. The Rogues had already won over the crowd with their sublime craftsmanship, the vignettes preceding many of the songs, the smart mix of slow and bouncy tunes, the solo instrumental snippets by each of the quartet's members, and especially the winning personality of Sparrow. As she sang Coco in what struck my layman's ears as beautiful French, I felt almost transported to Parisian streets. I immediately recalled the French film Amelie, starring Audrey Tautou. Both Sparrow and the character Amelie have that mischievous mannerism, a twinkle of the eye and a sweet smile to go with a kind spirit. I had only a vague idea of what the song was about, but it didn't matter.
If someday Resonant Rogues comes back for a third visit, I'd like to see them again, with the hope they reprise Coco. In the meantime, maybe I'll take up French.
Saturday, June 16, 2018
Two Infield Plays Examined
I had almost forgotten how enjoyable it can be sometimes to listen to a baseball game on the radio instead of watching it on the idiot lantern. Such was the case a week ago today when the Twins anemic offense could not muster more than a single run in a 2-1 home loss to the Los Angeles Angels (formerly known as the Los Angeles Angels Of Anaheim, the Anaheim Angels and the California Angels, but never, to my knowledge, as the Disneyland Ducks). Momma Cuandito and I were driving home from Wisconsin, passing the time listening to Corey Provus call the play-by-play and Dan "The Dazzle Man" Gladden provide analysis on the Twins Radio Network. For my money the former Twins left fielder offers more astute insight than any of the retired ballers employed by FSN television.
What I remember most from listening to that game is the occurrence, in consecutive innings, of two plays which, unless you were carefully watching or listening, would appear uneventful.
Teaching An Old Dog A New Trick. Although I don't claim to be an MLB rules guru -- the Official Rules are more than 150 pages long -- I found out that crediting a fielder with an assist is not as cut-and-dried as I'd believed. The play in question occurred in the top of the fifth inning when Angels second baseman Ian Kinsler hit a blistering grounder to Twins third baseman Eduardo Escobar. Esco, with less than a split second to react, tried to short-hop the ball, but it glanced off the heel of his mitt. Luckily for the Twins, the deflected ball went directly in the air to shortstop Ehire Adrianza whose throw to first barely beat Kinsler. I immediately said to Momma Cuan, "Just your routine 5-6-3 putout," an opinion verbally confirmed very soon thereafter by Gladden and Provus.
Before the next Angels batter stepped to the plate, word came to the radio guys that Target Field veteran official scorer, Stew Thornley, did not give Escobar an assist; he scored the play a straight-up 6-3. Gladden and Provus went apoplectic. (I would have behaved in similar fashion, but I was behind the wheel.) "I'm not changing my scorecard," proclaimed Gladden, almost peevishly. "Neither am I," agreed Provus.
After the half-inning ended, Provus went to the Twins media people and came back to the mic with the following explanation. Thornley did not credit Escobar with an assist because, in Thornley's opinion, Escobar should have fielded Kinsler's hot hopper cleanly; had the play not been rescued by Adrianza, Esco would have been charged with an error. The official scorer does not have to award an assist to the fielder who first touched the ball in that scenario.
I have been an avid baseball fan for over sixty years. I never knew an official scorer had that much discretion, and I'm relatively sure I have never seen (or heard of) a fielder being deprived of an assist if the ball glances off his person, uniform or equipment only to have his teammate successfully complete the play. Yet, here is an official comment to MLB Rule 9.10(a) which clearly opens the door for the Official Scorer to rule as Thornley did:
Mere ineffective contact with the ball shall not be considered an assist.
Lesson learned. I hereby swallow a slice of humble pie.
Sometimes You Must Be Unorthodox. In the bottom of the sixth inning Angels first baseman Jose Miguel Fernandez, a thirty year old rookie, executed a play the way he was probably coached to do, and it ended up costing his team a run.
With one out the Twins had runners on first (Robbie Grossman) and third (Eddie Rosario), with Max Kepler up to bat. The Angels needed a double play to get out of the inning. Kepler hit a a sharp grounder near the bag to Fernandez. The "book" says in that situation, the first baseman should step on the bag to get the sure out, then throw it to second. The "catch" is that the receiver of the throw, typically the shortstop, needs to apply a tag on the incoming runner (Grossman) because once the first baseman (Fernandez) has stepped on first, there is no longer a force play at second. Sure enough, Fernandez stepped on the bag to retire Kepler, but that's where the Angels' trouble began.
Grossman, a six year veteran who might have eyes in back of his head, did not oblige the Angels by dutifully sliding into second into the awaiting tag of Angels shortstop Zack Cozart. Instead, Robbie pulled up thirty feet short of second, intentionally getting himself into a rundown. That opened the door for the speedy Rosario to score from third while the Angels were in the process of completing the double play with a time-consuming 3-6-3-4-6 hot box. The rules state that once the force play is removed from the standard double play, Rosario's run counts provided he crosses the plate before Grossman is tagged. Unfortunately for the Angels, due to Grossman's smarts and Rosario's speed, that's what happened.
In hindsight, what should Fernandez have done? Given the fact that Rosario is an extremely fast runner, Fernandez should have gone for the standard 3-6-3 double play instead of first stepping on the bag to retire Kepler. Even though first base is sometimes called the easiest of the nine defensive positions to play, baseball remains a thinking person's game. Sometimes you just have to think outside the box.
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Movie Review: "A Wrinkle In Time"
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.
- The Beatles (1967)
"A Wrinkle In Time": B. Since 1922 a division of the American Library Association has annually bestowed the Newbery Medal to the author of the book deemed to be the most distinguished contribution to American literatue for children. In short, it's an award for writing the best children's book of the year, and is widely considered the most prestigious literary prize of its kind. New York author Madeline L'Engle won the Newbery in 1963 for A Wrinkle In Time, which to this day remains one of the most popular children's books of all time.
Until the recently released film of the same title, L'Engle's book had never been produced as a feature film for the cinema. Walt Disney Pictures, which had created a made-for-television film of the novel in 2003, also financially backed producers Jim Whitaker and Catherine Hand for the new adaptation directed by Ava Marie DuVernay. Her film, which follows the book more closely than the average "book-to-screen" project, tracks the adventures of a junior high age girl who, with the assistance of three mysterious fairies, transcends the universe in search of her missing father. The film stars fourteen year old Storm Reid, who plays the abandoned daughter, Meg. She is accompanied by her precocious five year old brother, Charles Wallace (Deric McCabe), and her teenage friend Calvin (Levi Miller).
The story starts out with Meg leading a rather ordinary life, if not for the fact that her father (Chris Pine), a scientist, disappeared a couple of years ago. Meg's mother, Kate (Gugu Mbatha Raw), tries her best to raise her two kids as a single parent, never letting them give up hope that one day their dad will return. Easier said than done, as everyone in their small town has an opinion -- most of them unkind -- about what happened to him. Even Meg's schoolmates are not beneath taunting and bullying her, an addition to the novel no doubt suggested by unfortunate twenty-first century behavioral issues. It's not long before Mrs. Whatsit (Reese Witherspoon) appears in the family's kitchen, and when she does the story line arcs into science fiction. Only little Charles Wallace, who seems to have an intellect way beyond his years, is not surprised by her presence.
Mrs. Whatsit is eager to help the children locate the missing scientist, and soon partners with her two strange friends, Mrs. Which (Oprah Winfrey) and Mrs. Who (the sweet Mindy Kaling). The scenes in which these three fairies -- or call them good witches if you prefer -- are present comprise the best parts of the movie. In fact, that's an understatement because the story drags a little when the kids are left to cope on their own. No surprise that Oprah's character is the leader of the trio, sometimes having to rein in the exuberance of the younger Mrs. Whatsit. Mrs. Who has fewer lines, but her observations manifest her wisdom.
In order to keep the run time to a manageable 109 minutes, the filmmakers have truncated or deleted several scenes from the novel. Some decisions, such as eliminating an entire intermediate stop of the space travelers between Earth and their ultimate destination, are well-reasoned. Others, like a too-brief explanation for one of the character's abrupt change of heart near the end of the story, or the elimination of an oversized disembodied brain, the evil IT, prove a little unsatisfying. What works without question are the special effects which, thankfully, are more artistic than explosive. On the other hand, I found Ramin Djawadi's music to be annoying and cliched. Must we have violins and French horns playing in almost every suspenseful and important scene?
More comparisons between the novel and the film are inevitable. In the book, Charles Wallace is endearing, while in the movie he lacks personality. Is that by design? I don't know. The book spends little time developing the character of the AWOL father, but the script writers have given Pine, the actor who portrays him, more camera time. As for Meg and Calvin, the young actors with those roles show promise; it wouldn't surprise me if Disney casts them again.
So, what, exactly is a wrinkle in time? As imagined by author L'Engle, it is a supernatural state which allows one to pass through light years at an infinitesimal fraction of the time ordinarily required. To get a visual of the concept, place a small cloth over a table and pinch two spots (Point A and Point B) a couple of feet apart. The distance between the two spots represents a distance of X light years. Now, as you raise and bring your two pinching hands closer together, notice the cloth folds below. The distance between the two spots, and therefore the time needed to travel from Point A to Point B, has diminished due to the fold, otherwise known as a "wrinkle." Only creatures like the three fairies have the power to create such a wrinkle in space (and therefore time). Nice of them to help the kids out.
Love is all you need.
- The Beatles (1967)
"A Wrinkle In Time": B. Since 1922 a division of the American Library Association has annually bestowed the Newbery Medal to the author of the book deemed to be the most distinguished contribution to American literatue for children. In short, it's an award for writing the best children's book of the year, and is widely considered the most prestigious literary prize of its kind. New York author Madeline L'Engle won the Newbery in 1963 for A Wrinkle In Time, which to this day remains one of the most popular children's books of all time.
Until the recently released film of the same title, L'Engle's book had never been produced as a feature film for the cinema. Walt Disney Pictures, which had created a made-for-television film of the novel in 2003, also financially backed producers Jim Whitaker and Catherine Hand for the new adaptation directed by Ava Marie DuVernay. Her film, which follows the book more closely than the average "book-to-screen" project, tracks the adventures of a junior high age girl who, with the assistance of three mysterious fairies, transcends the universe in search of her missing father. The film stars fourteen year old Storm Reid, who plays the abandoned daughter, Meg. She is accompanied by her precocious five year old brother, Charles Wallace (Deric McCabe), and her teenage friend Calvin (Levi Miller).
The story starts out with Meg leading a rather ordinary life, if not for the fact that her father (Chris Pine), a scientist, disappeared a couple of years ago. Meg's mother, Kate (Gugu Mbatha Raw), tries her best to raise her two kids as a single parent, never letting them give up hope that one day their dad will return. Easier said than done, as everyone in their small town has an opinion -- most of them unkind -- about what happened to him. Even Meg's schoolmates are not beneath taunting and bullying her, an addition to the novel no doubt suggested by unfortunate twenty-first century behavioral issues. It's not long before Mrs. Whatsit (Reese Witherspoon) appears in the family's kitchen, and when she does the story line arcs into science fiction. Only little Charles Wallace, who seems to have an intellect way beyond his years, is not surprised by her presence.
Mrs. Whatsit is eager to help the children locate the missing scientist, and soon partners with her two strange friends, Mrs. Which (Oprah Winfrey) and Mrs. Who (the sweet Mindy Kaling). The scenes in which these three fairies -- or call them good witches if you prefer -- are present comprise the best parts of the movie. In fact, that's an understatement because the story drags a little when the kids are left to cope on their own. No surprise that Oprah's character is the leader of the trio, sometimes having to rein in the exuberance of the younger Mrs. Whatsit. Mrs. Who has fewer lines, but her observations manifest her wisdom.
In order to keep the run time to a manageable 109 minutes, the filmmakers have truncated or deleted several scenes from the novel. Some decisions, such as eliminating an entire intermediate stop of the space travelers between Earth and their ultimate destination, are well-reasoned. Others, like a too-brief explanation for one of the character's abrupt change of heart near the end of the story, or the elimination of an oversized disembodied brain, the evil IT, prove a little unsatisfying. What works without question are the special effects which, thankfully, are more artistic than explosive. On the other hand, I found Ramin Djawadi's music to be annoying and cliched. Must we have violins and French horns playing in almost every suspenseful and important scene?
More comparisons between the novel and the film are inevitable. In the book, Charles Wallace is endearing, while in the movie he lacks personality. Is that by design? I don't know. The book spends little time developing the character of the AWOL father, but the script writers have given Pine, the actor who portrays him, more camera time. As for Meg and Calvin, the young actors with those roles show promise; it wouldn't surprise me if Disney casts them again.
So, what, exactly is a wrinkle in time? As imagined by author L'Engle, it is a supernatural state which allows one to pass through light years at an infinitesimal fraction of the time ordinarily required. To get a visual of the concept, place a small cloth over a table and pinch two spots (Point A and Point B) a couple of feet apart. The distance between the two spots represents a distance of X light years. Now, as you raise and bring your two pinching hands closer together, notice the cloth folds below. The distance between the two spots, and therefore the time needed to travel from Point A to Point B, has diminished due to the fold, otherwise known as a "wrinkle." Only creatures like the three fairies have the power to create such a wrinkle in space (and therefore time). Nice of them to help the kids out.
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Getaway Matinee
It is a common practice for Major League Baseball to schedule the final game of many series as a day game. This enables the visiting team, and in some cases the home team as well, to hit the road to their next destination without having to take a red eye flight. For this reason the final game of a series is often called a "getaway game" and the day on which it's played is "getaway day." This season the Twins home schedule includes twenty-five series, of which all but three finish with a day game.
In recent years I have developed a propensity to attend weekday afternoon games. Maybe they remind me of loving to go to Cubs games at Wrigley Field when I was a kid. Every home game back then for the North Siders was a matinee. In fact, the Cubbies never hosted a night game until August 8, 1988. Another reason for my attraction to day games might be linked to my attraction for beer, which always goes down better under the sun. A third explanation is that during the twenty-eight years I worked in downtown Minneapolis, I can only remember once or twice when I played hooky to go to the Metrodome and then returned to the office. Now that I'm retired I don't have to play hooky! The feeling of freedom is cause for celebration.
I brought Momma Cuandito, who has developed into a full-fledged Twins fan, to the Twins game against the St. Louis Cardinals on a recent Wednesday afternoon. National League teams make only one appearance per season here, and the Cards historically field a very good squad. In fact, when the Twins-Cards series started, the Red Birds were only a game out of first place in the NL Central Division. With the Twins trying to keep up with the Cleveland Indians, the cream of the AL Central, this game was a good one for us to attend.
What follows are some random observations of our game day experience.
My advice for attending a weekday matinee at Target Field is simply this: Don't drive unless you are prepared to pay through the nose for parking. The downtown office workers take up almost all of the primo spots. I used to park for $5 in a surface lot at Second & Second in the Warehouse District. That property is now a mammoth hole in the ground. Apparently there is no such thing as too many apartment buildings all over downtown.
The low point for the game in question was the pay lot next to Cuzzy's at 8th Avenue and Washington. The sign on the curb advertised a fee of $10, but once at the lot entrance around the corner we found out the actual charge was $30. As Momma Cuan pointed out, that's the kind of price gouging one would expect in Wrigleyville, not here in Minnesota Nice territory. We settled for parking in the ramp behind the Bull Dog on 11th Street for $8.
Target Field, now in its ninth year of operation, remains one of the best ball parks in MLB. It still amazes me how the architects fit the stadium into its small footprint, nestled among an interstate highway, entrance and exit ramps, heavily-traveled four lane roads and the city's major rail transportation hub near the heart of downtown. Amazingly, when people are walking toward the stadium on most approaches such as 6th or 7th Street, the stadium does not come into view until they are practically right on top of it.
For many fans Target Field's food choices are practically more important than the game itself. For years our favorite option was the cubano sandwich from Tony'O's, which has kiosks on the first two levels. This time we tried the roast beef sandwich from Murray's. It may not have been as filling as Tony's offering, but the meat was top drawer. At $14 a pop, it should be.
I wish I could heap praise on the stadium's beer selection, but alas, unless you are a light beer devotee or a Bud drinker, you have to look hard for anything better. One of the very few vendors who has a decent selection is located down the left field concourse on the first level. Minnesota craft beers are his headliners. There is usually a long line of serious swillers who are willing to put up with the wait. Similarly, Hrbek's, which is an enclosed bar right next to the gate bearing the former Twin first baseman's jersey number (14), has some interesting beers in addition to the usual suspects. A tip of the hat to Herbie for adding a new outdoor patio to the premises. A funny aside: I struck up a brief conversation with a Hrbek's bartender who told me that no matter how many varieties of beer are available, all the Milwaukee Brewers' fans order is Miller Light.
While we are on the topic of beer, Mary and I often wait for her grade school classmate, Tommy Newell, to make his way to our section. He has been a Twins beer hawker for years. When Mary went to the end of our row to purchase beer from him, he told the two women whose view he was blocking that Mary was the valedictorian of their class.
Aside from the paucity of good beer, I have three other gripes about the stadium. First, the right field porch which juts out from the wall is too gimmicky for my taste. The wall of the porch is made of stone. which sits above a wooden wall and (below that) a padded wall. Thus on a long drive which is about to carom off the wall, the right fielder has to guess which of those three materials the ball will strike if it doesn't carry over the wall for a home run. Each of those three materials creates a different carom. It is incumbent on the center fielder to be ready to retrieve the ball if the right fielder guesses incorrectly.
My second peeve is the disregard the scoreboard operator has for those of us keeping score. Yes, I realize that keeping score is becoming a lost art, but the Twins do make scorecards available (for free!), so they must be aware that some fans do enjoy tracking the game in that manner. There are many times when the fans in attendance or those watching on television would like to know how particular plays are evaluated by the official scorer, such as (i) hit or error, or (ii) wild pitch or passed ball. Another example is the official scoring on a ball hit into a defensive shift. Was that the shortstop or the second baseman who fielded that ball to the right of second? The scoreboard does have a space for "Scoring Decision," but whoever is responsible for posting current info in that space is asleep at the switch at the most inopportune times.
My third minor complaint has to do with this rhetorical question: Is the average Twins fan a total rube? How else do you explain the need for the scoreboard operator to urge, in huge all-caps letters, "MAKE SOME NOISE" or "CLAP YOUR HANDS!" flashing frenetically across the outfield wall? If you have to be told when to cheer at a baseball game, my sympathies go out to you.
A lot of attention was given to the decision by MLB to require, or at least strongly recommend, that teams install protective netting to separate the field of play from the infield box seats. The objective was to prevent injury to inattentive fans who would otherwise be struck by a foul ball. For decades only the seats more or less directly behind home plate were behind a net. But then a few fans, including a young girl in Boston, were seriously injured by scorching liners into the seats, and MLB decided to take action. The main objection to broadening the width of the netting to at least the dugouts was that it would obscure the vision of those fans siting behind the netting. After having attended many games when I had to look through the net to see the field, I can attest that in just a matter of a half-inning or so, you don't even notice that the netting is there.
Finally a word about the visiting team's fans. The Cardinal fans were loud and proud as their team beat the Twins 7-5. Most of the red-garbed visitors were seated behind their team's third base dugout and en masse along the left field line. It reminded me of a Twins game I attended against the Astros last year. The Houston fans, having much more to cheer about than the Minnesotans, practically took over Target Field. I have been in their shoes many times, wearing "my" team's colors on the road in the opponent's den. It is hard to explain, but if you're lucky enough to see your team win on the road, at least two feelings come over you. You feel that, somehow, your vocal encouragement contributed to the win; and, you almost forget about the hundreds of dollars you probably spent to be there.
In recent years I have developed a propensity to attend weekday afternoon games. Maybe they remind me of loving to go to Cubs games at Wrigley Field when I was a kid. Every home game back then for the North Siders was a matinee. In fact, the Cubbies never hosted a night game until August 8, 1988. Another reason for my attraction to day games might be linked to my attraction for beer, which always goes down better under the sun. A third explanation is that during the twenty-eight years I worked in downtown Minneapolis, I can only remember once or twice when I played hooky to go to the Metrodome and then returned to the office. Now that I'm retired I don't have to play hooky! The feeling of freedom is cause for celebration.
I brought Momma Cuandito, who has developed into a full-fledged Twins fan, to the Twins game against the St. Louis Cardinals on a recent Wednesday afternoon. National League teams make only one appearance per season here, and the Cards historically field a very good squad. In fact, when the Twins-Cards series started, the Red Birds were only a game out of first place in the NL Central Division. With the Twins trying to keep up with the Cleveland Indians, the cream of the AL Central, this game was a good one for us to attend.
What follows are some random observations of our game day experience.
My advice for attending a weekday matinee at Target Field is simply this: Don't drive unless you are prepared to pay through the nose for parking. The downtown office workers take up almost all of the primo spots. I used to park for $5 in a surface lot at Second & Second in the Warehouse District. That property is now a mammoth hole in the ground. Apparently there is no such thing as too many apartment buildings all over downtown.
The low point for the game in question was the pay lot next to Cuzzy's at 8th Avenue and Washington. The sign on the curb advertised a fee of $10, but once at the lot entrance around the corner we found out the actual charge was $30. As Momma Cuan pointed out, that's the kind of price gouging one would expect in Wrigleyville, not here in Minnesota Nice territory. We settled for parking in the ramp behind the Bull Dog on 11th Street for $8.
Target Field, now in its ninth year of operation, remains one of the best ball parks in MLB. It still amazes me how the architects fit the stadium into its small footprint, nestled among an interstate highway, entrance and exit ramps, heavily-traveled four lane roads and the city's major rail transportation hub near the heart of downtown. Amazingly, when people are walking toward the stadium on most approaches such as 6th or 7th Street, the stadium does not come into view until they are practically right on top of it.
For many fans Target Field's food choices are practically more important than the game itself. For years our favorite option was the cubano sandwich from Tony'O's, which has kiosks on the first two levels. This time we tried the roast beef sandwich from Murray's. It may not have been as filling as Tony's offering, but the meat was top drawer. At $14 a pop, it should be.
I wish I could heap praise on the stadium's beer selection, but alas, unless you are a light beer devotee or a Bud drinker, you have to look hard for anything better. One of the very few vendors who has a decent selection is located down the left field concourse on the first level. Minnesota craft beers are his headliners. There is usually a long line of serious swillers who are willing to put up with the wait. Similarly, Hrbek's, which is an enclosed bar right next to the gate bearing the former Twin first baseman's jersey number (14), has some interesting beers in addition to the usual suspects. A tip of the hat to Herbie for adding a new outdoor patio to the premises. A funny aside: I struck up a brief conversation with a Hrbek's bartender who told me that no matter how many varieties of beer are available, all the Milwaukee Brewers' fans order is Miller Light.
While we are on the topic of beer, Mary and I often wait for her grade school classmate, Tommy Newell, to make his way to our section. He has been a Twins beer hawker for years. When Mary went to the end of our row to purchase beer from him, he told the two women whose view he was blocking that Mary was the valedictorian of their class.
Aside from the paucity of good beer, I have three other gripes about the stadium. First, the right field porch which juts out from the wall is too gimmicky for my taste. The wall of the porch is made of stone. which sits above a wooden wall and (below that) a padded wall. Thus on a long drive which is about to carom off the wall, the right fielder has to guess which of those three materials the ball will strike if it doesn't carry over the wall for a home run. Each of those three materials creates a different carom. It is incumbent on the center fielder to be ready to retrieve the ball if the right fielder guesses incorrectly.
My second peeve is the disregard the scoreboard operator has for those of us keeping score. Yes, I realize that keeping score is becoming a lost art, but the Twins do make scorecards available (for free!), so they must be aware that some fans do enjoy tracking the game in that manner. There are many times when the fans in attendance or those watching on television would like to know how particular plays are evaluated by the official scorer, such as (i) hit or error, or (ii) wild pitch or passed ball. Another example is the official scoring on a ball hit into a defensive shift. Was that the shortstop or the second baseman who fielded that ball to the right of second? The scoreboard does have a space for "Scoring Decision," but whoever is responsible for posting current info in that space is asleep at the switch at the most inopportune times.
My third minor complaint has to do with this rhetorical question: Is the average Twins fan a total rube? How else do you explain the need for the scoreboard operator to urge, in huge all-caps letters, "MAKE SOME NOISE" or "CLAP YOUR HANDS!" flashing frenetically across the outfield wall? If you have to be told when to cheer at a baseball game, my sympathies go out to you.
A lot of attention was given to the decision by MLB to require, or at least strongly recommend, that teams install protective netting to separate the field of play from the infield box seats. The objective was to prevent injury to inattentive fans who would otherwise be struck by a foul ball. For decades only the seats more or less directly behind home plate were behind a net. But then a few fans, including a young girl in Boston, were seriously injured by scorching liners into the seats, and MLB decided to take action. The main objection to broadening the width of the netting to at least the dugouts was that it would obscure the vision of those fans siting behind the netting. After having attended many games when I had to look through the net to see the field, I can attest that in just a matter of a half-inning or so, you don't even notice that the netting is there.
Finally a word about the visiting team's fans. The Cardinal fans were loud and proud as their team beat the Twins 7-5. Most of the red-garbed visitors were seated behind their team's third base dugout and en masse along the left field line. It reminded me of a Twins game I attended against the Astros last year. The Houston fans, having much more to cheer about than the Minnesotans, practically took over Target Field. I have been in their shoes many times, wearing "my" team's colors on the road in the opponent's den. It is hard to explain, but if you're lucky enough to see your team win on the road, at least two feelings come over you. You feel that, somehow, your vocal encouragement contributed to the win; and, you almost forget about the hundreds of dollars you probably spent to be there.
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