In a million, bajillion years I never thought I would be a
baseball writer, much less asked to be a baseball writer. But, when the Greatest Living American Writer asks
you to serve, you report to duty without any regard to potential charges of
collusion or election tampering. Perhaps I am chasing a tangent. Regardless, my
sense of commitment to the national past time beckons.
My appreciation of the game reached its zenith in my 13th
year of age, as a scrappy, gangly, defense-oriented first baseman with mad slap
hitting skillz and a more than decent baseball card collection. My knowledge of
the meaning of stats began and ended with whatever was on the non-glossy sides
of those rectangular slivers of glory. Understanding not only what ERA stood
for but how to actually calculate it felt like I moved from Algebra 1 to
pre-calculus, skipping right past that geometry nonsense.
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| National Geographic |
I grew up a Kansas City Royals fan. That was based in the
fact that I was born in Kansas City, lived there for a hot minute and my entire
lineage was rooted there. That allegiance was nailed into place by my being 7
in 1977, right as the Royals were peaking as one of the three best teams in the
world for the next eight years, led by the greatest GQ manly man of them
all, George Brett. Brett was the king of the 80’s, flirting with .400, smearing pine tar, joking with Letterman and hauling in trophy over trophy like it was
no big deal. Dude was The Boss, screw Steinbrenner.
I also loved to go to Royals Stadium when I visited my relatives
in the summer (I became a full-time Arizonan in ‘72, not including a 7-year dalliance
with the entertainment industry in LA in the 90’s). The sea of bright green
artificial turf and the majestic array of fountains behind the wall in right
center field dazzled me while those coked-out men in whiter-than-coke uniforms
filled the time between inning breaks. I could not have been more prepared for
what Jerry Colangelo and the Arizona Diamondbacks would bestow upon my
non-traditionalist baseball sensibilities in 1998.
Look, baseball can be the most zen distraction in the world,
defensive players shifting and gliding in their prime field placements, the
dance between pitcher and catcher, the movement of hitter and baserunners on a
square that operates in a mutually exclusive syncopation with the rest of the
yard that is never the same between two home fields. Whatever, I need to know
that I can get a beer and a dog and air conditioning for 2-plus hours. I’m a
Diamondbacks fan. Sure, we’ve had the fortune of a world championship and multiple
playoff runs, but we have seen the cellar more than once, too. For every Randy Johnson
or Paul Goldschmidt we’ve endured an Russ Ortiz or Shea Hillenbrand. Through it
all we get to sit in a warehouse converted into baseball stadium that truly is
optimized each offseason when the monster truck rally comes to town.
If you’re looking for keen insights on how to best build
your fantasy baseball team from a Diamondbacks angle or why Mark Grace can’t seem
get Yasmany Tomas’ swing in order, I am not your man. But I can’t wait to tell
you how the new Bahn Mi sandwich tastes!
Jason Franz
Desert Dweller
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