The Futility Infielder

Cyclones, Hurricanes, and No-Hitters, Oh My!

Last Friday night may qualify as the most surreal night I've ever had at a ballpark, even though it was one of the more short-lived. My co-worker Lillie had organized a trip to see the Brooklyn Cyclones play at Keyspan Park, a colorful little ballpark nestled in the middle of Coney Island's amusement rides. The Class A Cyclones, whom I visited during their inaugural season last summer, are sold beyond capacity this season, with only bleachers and standing-room tickets available on game day. Fortunately, Lillie had a friend willing to go out of his way and swing by Coney Island to pick up ten tickets at $5 a pop.

Now, group expeditions are always a dicey proposition at ballparks; the more people you have, the harder it is to get everybody to the same spot at the same time, especially when coming from the city an hour away during rush hour. Our plan to meet a half-hour before game time fell by the wayside. But nine out of our ten managed to find their way to the bleacher entrance of Keyspan Park as the National Anthem was being played, and we entered the stadium together.

Though Keyspan is oversold, it's not necessarily full to capacity, as on any given night entire rows of season-ticket holders may not show up. So as the top half of the first played out, we found our way from the bleachers down to the first-base side of the infield, staking out the better part of a row in section 14.

As the game began, the weather was questionable, with a rainstorm reportedly heading towards the park. A glance at the sky as we settled into our seats answered the question, as a black, arced cloud of doom loomed to the east. Uh-oh.

With the chaos of the rush-hour trip to the ballpark behind us and a potential storm ahead, the first thing on my mind was a quick bite to eat--a bite and a beer, actually. My girlfriend Andra took care of the beer portion, getting stuck in a long line in the process. By the time she was back, ominous gusts of wind--strong enough to blow one's cap off--were swirling, and the occasional thunderclap shook the stadium. I headed off to get a couple of hot dogs, but frustrated by getting stuck in the same concessions line as Andra had, I bailed out. Instead, I hurriedly scored a pair of Italian sausages at a less-crowded cart and returned to my seat. I quickly had to get up again to find condiments and napkins, neither of which was easy to find. The napkins were inconveniently being dispensed from stupid wall-mounted contraptions as if they were Kleenex; one good yank to pull a few out on them produced a wrinkled mess unfit for presentation to another human being.

If it sounds like I watched very little baseball up to this point, that's a correct impression. Our large group, late arrival, and lack of familiarity with the ballplayers had taken the option of keeping score out of my hands. Once that happens, my attention (not to mention my feet) tends to wander. But I began to tune in once the sausage returned my blood-sugar level to a more comfortable point. A close play at first base in which a Cyclones batter was called out had several fans in our section jawing back to the umpire. As the man in blue listened to the chatter coming from the Cyclones' bench, some of these armchair umps imagined he was paying attention to their complaint, resulting in an ever more boisterous display.

Play progressed very quickly; it seemed as if every batter swung at the first or second pitch with one eye on the forecast. Through this, the Brooklyn starter kept throwing zeroes up on the scoreboard. After six quick innings, he still hadn't allowed a hit. Unfortunately, the Cyclones had managed only two hits themselves up to that point, and the game was still scoreless. Meanwhile, the thunder clapped ever louder, and the sky grew blacker.

So there I am, in the middle of a no-hitter to which I've barely paid attention. I'm still hungry. I can't sit still. I don't have a scorecard. Hell, I don't even know the pitcher's name (Jason Scobie, as I soon learned). And I've got too many people to talk to while this is going on. I'm thinking to myself, "What sorry-assed excuse for a baseball fan have I become? Better I head to the kiddie pool beyond the outfield wall of the Arizona Diamondbacks mallpark than be caught without a scorecard at a no-hitter." Oh, the guilt.

In the bottom of the sixth inning, Oneonta brought in a new pitcher (Ross Koenig), who got one out, then hit the second batter, leftfielder Jonathan Slack, in the arm with a pitch. To the crowd's delight, Slack stole second base, then advanced to third on a wild pitch. With two outs, second baseman Joe Jianetti blooped a soft single, scoring Slack for the game's first run.

Scobie took the mound for the seventh, retiring the first batter. At that point, Lillie leaned over to me and broke the spell by uttering the dreaded words "no-hitter." Sure enough the next batter, Tigers third baseman Robert Watson, lined a double off of the leftfield wall. The appreciative Brooklyn crowd gave him an ovation, but several parents, with their eye on the weather, began decamping once their shot at history over. Lillie winced, and I shook my head. So much for our luck.

The top of the seventh ended with a series of violent thunderclaps, after which the umpires conferred and called the game. Momentarily, the sky erupted and the rain began to fall. As the groundskeepers unrolled the tarp, it was clear our baseball was done for the night. With the aid of a borrowed umbrella, we made the subway stop without getting too soaked. Our ride back to the city on the lead car of the F train was punctuated by flashes of lightning and the sight of rain pouring in through the train's front door. All in all, a surreal experience.