Day 2: At least Washington's first in something

"First in war, first in peace, and last in the American League." That's what they used to say about the old Washington Senators, the hapless bunch of baseball men who couldn't do much in two separate attempts at playing baseball in Washington, D.C. So this time, when they brought baseball back to the capital, perhaps they figured they should try the other league. Now -- well, as of July 23, 2005 -- they're at least first in the National League (East). If two out of three ain't bad, then I guess one out of three is ... a start?

In posting Friday night's account of the Mets game (see below), I found myself falling into bed at 1:30 a.m. on Saturday. I set the alarm for a not-late-enough 6:30, figuring on at least half an hour of snooze time onto the end of that. And it might have worked out that way ... had I remembered to turn on the alarm. So at 8:15, I looked at the clock and thought, "Shoot. I suppose I need to get going."

An hour later, I was in the car and soon I was zipping down the New Jersey Turnpike, Washington-bound, following the signs that said SOUTH. I find it sad, as I make a quick stop at the Walt Whitman Rest Area, that we're about 90 miles into New Jersey, and the most prominent thing when you walk into the gift shop is a table covered with "I Love NY" t-shirts. It didn't occur to me at the time that, of all the service areas on the Turnpike, I choose the Whitman one for my quick restroom run, considering his 1846 dispatch to the Brooklyn Eagle: “In our sundown perambulations of late through the outer parts of Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing ‘base,’ a certain game of ball ... Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our close rooms...the game of ball is glorious.”

Upon arriving in Maryland, I come to an empty house. Matt, the college friend I'd be going to the game and then staying with, was not home. I had called from the road to inform him that I was running late and he didn't have to rush home from his girlfriend's for my planned noon arrival. But I hadn't been specific enough.

"Yo!" he says when he answers my call.

"I'm sitting outside your house ..." I say in a mock-stalker voice.

"Oh ... whoops," he replies.

"I suppose I should have actually given you a time at which I would be arriving," I said. But soon, after bringing another college pal, Brad, into the conversation, we came up with a remedy: I would get back on the Beltway and the three of us would meet in Arlington, Virginia, where Matt was and near Brad's home. We were to meet at Baileys Pub and Grille at the Ballston Common Mall. When Brad first mentioned the place, some interference in our cell phone connection garbled his voice a little, so on the drive down, I tried to figure out why a suburban shopping mall in Virginia -- a commonwealth full of its own rich Colonial history -- would choose to name itself after a New England village green, Boston Common. As it turns out, the mall is roughly the size of Boston Common, so the similar name is appropriate.

After lunch and ice cream, talk of baseball and bachelor parties, Matt and I swing by his house again to leave my car as we head across the District to RFK Stadium. Traffic and then unexpected closure of Matt's regular parking lot -- the former, we believe, caused at least in part by the latter -- prevents us from getting through the turnstiles in time for the first pitch. Or the 31st pitch. Not only do we listen to the top of the first on the car radio, but we get into the bottom of the inning before we park and start walking up the hill to the stadium. Inside, we find Cristian Guzman batting -- a term used loosely when it comes to the .180 hitter -- with two outs and a 4-0 Nationals lead. Settling into our seats, I spot a fan walking in the field seats below wearing a Guzman jersey and I wonder if he'll get his money back. I'm sure the Nationals would like theirs back.

Opened in 1962 for the second incarnation of the Senators, RFK slid in front of Shea Stadium to become the NL's third-oldest ballpark, behind Wrigley Field and Dodger Stadium. It certainly looks and feels like a 1960s multi-purpose stadium. Now that the Redskins have moved out, RFK -- or The Rob, as Brad calls it -- again splits its time morphing from a baseball stadium to a football one and back, only now it hosts international football in the form of D.C. United and Major League Soccer. There are no box seats, I notice as I look down. The best they could do was put new, soft blue cushioning on several sections behind home plate and put a table into a small box down in the front row directly behind the catcher. At some point, it's clear that they decided they needed more premium (as in high-priced, not high-quality) seats, so they cut off the continuous walkway by inserting seats at intervals that stretch from behind the first-base dugout around to the one on the third-base side.

With the score already 4-0, there's not much left for us; Washington cruised from there. Tony Armas Jr. carried a no-hitter into the sixth inning before a walk to Craig Biggio ahead of Lance Berkman soon becames a 4-2 Nats lead: Berkman deposited a pitch over the right-field wall for the first hit of the game.

The atmosphere is as electric as it was on Opening Day, now that Washington has risen to first place and we're just over two months away from the end of the season. Matt has become friends with his fellow season-ticket holders, chatting with the two men to his right and the family behind us. One of the regulars points out how the numbers on the outfield wall designating the distance from home plate have moved. Those that read 380 feet that were once in right-center and left-center field are now closer to their respective foul lines, more straightaway right and left. First it was players who couldn't believe their drives to the gaps were falling short of 380 feet; they argued that it was at least 20 feet deeper. When the grumbling got louder, someone decided this matter needed to be settled. Lasers were involved and, indeed, those 380-foot power alleys are actually 394-foot gaps where home runs go to die.

For two nights now, I've been a part of large, spirited crowds. Washington's doesn't quite measure up to Merengue Night madness, but those were special circumstances. Both the Mets and the Nats are teams comprised of loose, laid-back players who feed off of the fans. When Shea starts rockin', you can see the Mets players quietly taking it in, the energy of the fans spurring them on. The same thing happens in Washington, where 81 home games likely won't be enough to make up for 33 years without a team. In two nights, I've been among 92,953 spirited, knowledgeable boosters. In New York, the fans have suffered through high expectations and low results for years now; in Washington, each home run, each big hit, each key strikeout seems to be followed by a release of cheers and applause that have been building since the Nixon Administration. By that logic, the fans in Philadelphia should be exponentially louder -- they've been stuck with underachieving, underwhelming, hapless teams for decades. How they'll be on a scorching Sunday afternoon at a sparkling new ballpark remains to be seen.

Baseball in The District

Washington will be a great big-league city, and it won't be long.

It's just not quite there yet.

At roughly 7:06 p.m. on April 14, 2005, the first pitch in the first official Major League Baseball game in 34 years was thrown by Livan Hernandez of the new Washington Nationals. Leadoff hitter Craig Counsell of the Arizona Diamondbacks took the pitch, a called strike down the middle that brought a roar from the crowd.

Only the crowd was on its collective asses. The fans stood and cheered for pregame introductions, for the ceremonial first pitch by the ass of a president, and as the team took the field. And yet, the majority of the 45,000 in attendance settled into their seats as Hernandez toed the rubber and Counsell stepped into the batter's box. "The first pitch in 34 years, and they're sitting down?" I asked Matt, one of whose two season tickets I used to come to the game. I've been to the last six Mets home openers, and not once have the 55,000 fans at Shea sat down for the first pitch of a new season, even last Monday when the team and its $119 million center fielder came home from the opening road trip 1-5. The Nationals were in first place, and their fans were sitting.

After the game, Brad, who was sitting a level below us, out of sight, said that his section stood, but from what I could see, that wasn't the case in about 90 percent of the sections around RFK Stadium. I suppose Matt and I were at fault, in part, sitting down in our front-row seats of the upper deck. But I was a visitor, so I didn't see it as my place to tell the fans of Washington how to start their first season in three decades. (Clearly, I have no problem doing so after the fact.) I was also filming the one pitch with my digital camera (I have the express, written consent from Major League Baseball around here somewhere), and I wasn't in a position to have to debate sitting vs. standing with the fans behind me. To our credit, however, we were the last people to sit down. I stood long enough to make sure everyone behind me really thought about what they were doing and whether or not is was how they truly wanted to welcome baseball back to the District.

That was really my only criticism of Washington's fans, however. They were loud and enthusiastic. Quaint, almost, in the way they booed any mention of opposing players. Certainly, they're happy to have baseball back in town, but they'll have to endure three seasons of an aging, no-frills stadium until they get a new one a few blocks away. I wonder how they'll respond to a one-run deficit in the ninth in August, when they're 15 games out of first place. They jumped and rocked the place -- literally, we could feel the upper deck shaking after Vinny Castilla's home run -- when the Nats scored, but will they be the kind of crowd that cheers to fire up the team when its backs are against the wall?

They know when pitchers are throwing at hitters, though. When Castilla came up in the eighth needing just a single for the cycle, Lance Cormier drilled him with the first pitch. The umpire gave both teams a warning as Castilla walked to first, and the crowd responded with a chorus of boos generally reserved for Alex Rodriguez in Boston. The boos continued after the inning ended and Cormier walked to the dugout and again after the game as the losing pitcher was announced (see? quaint). This last one, though, begged the question, which I posed to Matt: Why boo the losing pitcher? He sucked enough to let your team win -- doesn't he get some cheers? Even the Boston fans are smart enough to realize that, what with Mariano Rivera's effectiveness against the Sox recently.

After the game, Matt, Brad and I walked back from the stadium all the way to Union Station as part of a horde of red-clad Nationals fans. The first few blocks were spent debating what action should have been taken against Cormier for his intentional beaning. Brad said he should've been tossed immediately, and I disagreed. Part of me would like to see the old style of baseball when pitchers pitched inside and used brushback pitches to reclaim the outside half of the plate and beanballs were returned when the offending pitcher -- or at least the other team's best hitter -- came up to bat. Bob Gibson would have a 4.80 ERA -- or worse -- if he had to pitch today, where one inside pitch can get you a warning from the umpire. I think, in general, baseball is too soft. Granted, Arizona manager Bob Melvin's intentions were clear when Castilla came to bat, but there have been games where the first HBP brings a warning from the ump, who then tosses the next pitcher to nip a batter with a curve ball. Despite what most fans believe, a warning does not mean an automatic ejection for the next pitcher to hit a batter. The umpire still has discretion as to whether or not he felt the pitcher was intentionally throwing at the batter. Yet sometimes, they'll still toss a hurler for grazing a guy with a curve or losing his grip on a changeup that sails up and in.

Still, I think baseball will thrive in Washington, and I expect to return for numerous games these next few summers. I should try to get there for some Mets games, at least, since Brad proposed a bet before the season began. For each Nationals win against the Mets, I pay him $3; for each Mets win, he gives me $2. At the end of the season, we expect one of us to be buying the other a beer.