By Troy Foster

MISSOULA, Mt. — I’ve been to a lot of places, and seen a lot of things.

I dipped my feet in the Pacific Ocean, the Great Lakes, the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico. 

I probably ate more than 50 hot dogs, hundreds of chicken wings and drank way too much beer.  

I saw countless base hits, home runs, strikeouts and even one ejection as I toured all 30 Major League ballparks.

The three of us who conducted this cultural experiment we call BaseCrawl set out in search of many things, but what we found wasn’t always what we were looking for. 

One of those things was generosity. I know that sounds cliche, but I really mean it. People truly are generous at heart. And it didn’t take us the full 75 days to figure this out. 

We know this because we depended on a diverse cross-section of people to help us through the project. After all, how do you suppose you visit every Major League Baseball stadium in one season without going broke? Hitchhike? Sneak in without a ticket? Take a life insurance policy out on your significant other? 

A lot of people have asked, and I’m not embarrassed to divulge: We spent exactly $3,461.51 on gasoline — a good $961.51 over budget. It didn’t help that gas went from $3.06 a gallon to more than $4 in the time between writing the budget and Day 1. What’s even more frustrating is that I’m the proud owner of a gasoline-electric hybrid car that gets 70 miles per gallon. Problem is it only seats two, and we began our basecrawl with three.

So to offset our costs — gas, mostly — we leaned on many people who opened their homes and their hearts to us. Relatively speaking, we hardly spent anything on lodging. Friends and family gave us floors and couches to crash on, but we also were blessed by the generosity of some people who were, previously, total strangers. 

We never asked to be fed or entertained, but it wasn’t uncommon for us to arrive at a destination and find a 12-ounce steak on hot plate, or enough boos to cause cirrhosis of the liver. 

Our hosts were not necessarily the subjects of our documentary, but they made it possible, and this is something I don’t want to be lost on the project.

These kind folks reminded us that our basecrawl was more about people than sports, and more about the journey than the destination. 

I don’t think Daren, Nolan or I could ever fully repay our hosts for their generosity, at least not in dollars. The least I can do is thank them personally and publicly, as my traveling companion Daren has already done throughout his blogs.

The mother of my main traveling companion put us up not once, but on two separate occasions during our basecrawl. I never knew such a beautiful woman could give birth to such an ugly kid. But he turned out alright, and it didn’t take me long to see why after meeting you. Thanks, also, for the kind of advice only a female can give, not to mention the awesome seats with Ava Bagby at Camden Yards. Sorry about the black widow I caught and let go. I don’t think it’ll come back to bite you, because that would be bad karma. 

To Lori and Rich Sommer of Austin, Texas:            
Thanks for redeeming my views of winged mammals by showing us the biggest urban bat colony in North America under that bridge in Austin. Just days before that, Daren and I took a break from baseball and saw the latest Batman movie — another pathetic superhero flick with more suckage than the Rise of the Silver Surfer, Iron Man and all three Spidermans combined. But I digress. I admire the fact that you live without television. It taught us that you can still find happiness without “Baseball Tonight” for 72 hours. The meals were great and I’m still ashamed you wouldn’t let us pick up the tab when we went out for Mexican. Thanks for letting us stay an extra night as Daren was trying to plan his future beyond BaseCrawl. Thanks, also, for introducing us to your friends Jim and Sylvia Newman. We were tired and worn out when we reached Austin, but three days of rest and relaxation with the four of you rejuvenated us for the last leg of our journey.

And to my family: Judy, Eldon and Todd Foster of Portland, Oregon:                 Todd: Thanks for letting us share your hotel room in Seattle and holding your little brother’s hand during those extremely nervous first two days (and agreeing to wear the exact same clothes for two days as we tried to pull off our first video pod). Remember, you might be older and wiser, but I’m taller now. And to Mom: Thanks for dinner and two peaceful nights at the old Portland homestead, not to mention that baseball card Halloween costume you made for me when I was just 7. It was the best costume at the school that year and everybody knew it. Also, thanks for preserving my loft after all these years in the exact state I left it 12 years ago. It’s a museum to my childhood, and spending another two nights in it this summer was surreal. And to Dad, for coming out and spending three days with us in your old stomping ground of Chicago, letting us crash at your hotel and buying us tickets. You gave me a glimpse into your own baseball pastime, and I want you to know how glad I am that you helped shape mine. I’ll never forget all those summers you took me up to the Kingdome to see the A’s beat up on the Mariners. The baseball games we watched together are some of my fondest childhood memories, and I’m glad we got in a few more this summer. Mom, Dad, Todd: I don’t say this enough, but I hope you know I love you.

 

…

As Daren, Nolan and I left every home we tried to take a little piece of our hosts with us. We had each of them sign a baseball that now sits at the workstation where I’m busy editing together our documentary. The baseball is a constant reminder of how we pulled this off on a tiny budget, and the people who made it possible.

They provided us couches, air mattresses and floors. None of them ever asked for a dollar in return, just a small window into our lives, and we were blessed with a small window into theirs.

Traveling was all I knew for 75 days this summer. Seemingly every night was a new adventure in a new town, with new people and a new place to sleep. On the final day of our basecrawl, I gave my buddy Daren a hug goodbye as he headed toward Colorado and the next chapter of his life. I then spent one last night with Nolan at his home in Twin Falls, Idaho. 

Nolan offered me a bed in his guest room, but I chose to sleep on his couch instead.

It just felt so much more comfortable there.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)

By Troy Foster

AUSTIN, Texas — Twenty-three years ago, a grey-haired man handed me a business card and made a tacit promise.

“Son, call me in 11 years and I’ll come out to see if you’re good enough to play in the Majors.”

With these words, my childhood was forever changed. The man was a scout for the Oakland A’s. I was just 7 at the time. Not only did he hand me a small, 2-by-3.5-inch card, he handed me a dream. When I turned 18 he was going to come out to watch me play.

He was going to give me a shot at being an Oakland A.

This event is legendary within my family, but time has a funny way of affecting the way we all remember it, as is often the case with legends.

As I recall it, this man gave me the business card in an aisle at Fred Meyer in Portland, Oregon, while my father and I were shopping for a new baseball bat. He saw me looking at bats and struck up a friendly conversation with an aspiring baseball player.

As my father recalls it, the man gave me the business card in the checkout line of Fred Meyer, a few minutes after befriending us in the sporting goods section. There are minor differences in our recollections, but it’s still the same story.

As my brother recalls it, this exchange took place at an entirely different store in an entirely different town. Dad and I don’t even remember my brother being there, but Todd claims to remember the expression on my face as the scout handed me the card.

“Yeah, he was an Italian guy and it was at G.I. Joe’s in Beaverton,” my brother said as we were discussing this story at the dinner table two months ago.

No matter the exact circumstances, this event did occur — one way or another. I know this because I found that business card tucked away in my dad’s office all these years later. We passed through Portland on May 27 — at the very beginning of our basecrawl — and after sifting through Dad’s stacks of dusty business cards in an office cabinet I found one from an employee of the “Oakland Athletics Baseball Company.”

“Fred Rocco Granato, Scout.”

Italian guy? Maybe my brother isn’t crazy.

After verifying the existence of the Oakland scout’s business card, I decided to call the number on it to see if he’d answer all these years later. But the number was dead, and as I set the phone down I noticed my hand was shaking.

We’ve been traveling all over this great nation in search of unique stories on baseball and the way it shapes our culture. On a personal level, I’m trying to reconnect with my own pastime, so I made an effort earlier in our trip to locate this Fred Rocco Granato.

My obsession for the Oakland A's manifested itself in this baseball card Halloween costume my mother made for me, circa 1985.

I wanted to tell him how important baseball had been to my childhood, and how his kind gesture had shaped it.

After meeting Mr. Granato in that aisle in Fred Meyer — or maybe it was G.I. Joe’s in Beaverton — I spent the next six or seven years obsessing over baseball in general and the Oakland A’s in particular. My whole psyche was framed around the dream of one day playing in the Major Leagues. I collected baseball cards, memorized starting lineups, and covered my room with A’s paraphernalia.

Every night, I went to bed dreaming of Oakland. Every morning, I spread the sports page across our living room floor to check the A’s box score and study the stats before breakfast.

My parents supported my childhood dreams. Sometime in the mid-1980s, Mom made me a life-sized Oakland A’s baseball card that served as a Halloween costume. Dad started taking me to the Kingdome every year to see a series between the A’s and the Mariners (the A’s always won, and I think the Mariners got so tired of losing there that they decided to tear down the Kingdome). One year Dad even took me down to Oakland Coliseum to see the A’s beat up on the Brewers.

I worshiped guys like Jose Canseco, Carney Lansford, Mickey Tettleton and Rickey Henderson. I studied the windups of pitchers like Dennis Eckersley and Dave Stewart, then mimicked their moves on the playground.

I had heroes, and I had a dream.

As the years passed by, my chance encounter with the A’s scout was constantly on my mind.

I don't think I took this A's hat off once in five years. Here I am with Dad at Doubleday Field in Cooperstown, New York.

I told all my friends that I had a personal tryout waiting for me when I turned 18, and I counted down the years until then. On my 8th birthday I was well aware that I only had 10 more years to go. When I turned 12 it was down to six.

Only there was one problem: I wasn’t very good at baseball.

Actually, I was a pretty damn good catcher for a Little Leaguer, but as boys became men and the pitches kept increasing in speed, so did the frequency of my strikeouts.

My obsession with baseball came to a grinding halt sometime in the first half of the 1990s. That’s when I realized I had a better chance of winning a beauty pageant than playing for the Oakland A’s. Add in a player’s strike, puberty, girls and a budding interest in music — my interest in baseball faded.

I think I even came to loathe baseball.

I stopped believing in Santa Claus sometime around second grade, but I continued believing that Mr. Granato was really going to keep his promise and come watch me play when I was 18. I believed this right up until my last game of Babe Ruth ball, the day I realized I was too awful to continue playing. I was 13, I think.

My interest in baseball has only recently returned. When I watched my alma matter, Oregon State, cruise to two consecutive NCAA national titles in 2006 and 2007, it was like being reintroduced to a friend I hadn’t seen in 15 years. When Daren, Nolan and I began cooking up plans for this basecrawl, my memories of the A’s scout returned.

I attempted to contact the Athletics organization on our way to the Bay Area. I related this story in an e-mail, but left out a small detail.

“What is the scout’s name? You have his card, but you didn’t mention his name,” an Oakland employee named Debbie responded in an e-mail.

I promptly responded with the name, but that was the last I heard from the A’s office, even after I tried to follow up with a few phone calls on the day of our game there. But I’m not here to complain. Debbie noted in her e-mail that their organization was in “full, pre-draft mode” and the draft was just a week away.

I’ve also tried to Google “Fred Rocco Granato,” but I find absolutely nothing. There’s only one Granato listed in the Portland phone book, and it isn’t Fred.

I put finding Mr. Granato on the back burner as I got caught up in the other things we’re doing for our project. But I’ve kept his business card in my wallet throughout our journey, and as I watched my former favorite team kick the devil out of the Rays in Tampa Bay a week ago, I decided it was time to give this another shot.

We’re heading West again and I’m visiting A’s message boards to see if anyone out there knows what became of Mr. Fred Rocco Granato. Please send me an e-mail if you do.

I’m not even sure if Mr. Granato is around anymore, but if he is I want to meet him, or at least tell him that he’s still on my mind all these years later. I wonder whether I was the only little boy Mr. Granato gave a business card to, or if he repeated this gesture numerous times. Maybe he created hundreds of A’s fans like me.

There’s something else, too. Daren and I have been playing catch, shagging balls and swinging the bat on our basecrawl whenever we find an empty field and some free time. I just turned 30, which means I’m still of playing age.

I’m feeling pretty good about my swing lately, and I’ve noticed the A’s could use a little help.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)

DAHLONEGA, Ga. — There are a lot of things about southerners I didn’t know.

We connected with my close friend Emily in Asheville, North Carolina. Emily and I were classmates this past year at the University of Montana, where I’m getting a master’s degree in business administration.

Emily has now joined us for several days of this baseball road trip, and that’s fine by me. We lost our third crew member, Nolan Rice, earlier in the trip, and she has picked up where the other Rice left off. Only this Rice is much more attractive.

Emily took us to the Atlanta game to watch her favorite team get blown away 16-5 and her favorite manager get thrown out for the 141st time, but that’s not what I’m here to write about. 

To us, Emily’s way of talking might be described as “straight out of the woods,” to borrow a term my traveling companion often says. She has a southern drawl that I’m certain has strengthened since I last saw her three months ago. It might be because she’s returned to the South, or maybe because her father has been making her practice it again. He’s been on her case about the way it’s been watered down living West. 

Our basecrawl would not be possible without the generosity and hospitality so many people have provided. Our time in the south has underscored this. After spending one night in North Carolina, Emily escorted us to her parents house in Dahlonega, Georgia, where Marshall and Maureen Rice put us up at “Rice Ridge” for two nights, handed over the keys to their party barn and taught us a few things about Southern hospitality.

Not only have we learned new dialect, I’ve been told my way of speaking is off, YA’ALL!

For instance, when I told the people around me “dinner’s ready,” Emily’s PAPA told me in no uncertain terms: “It’s not dinner, Troy, it’s SUPPER!”

When Emily speaks to her father, she says “Yes sir.” It’s “Yes ma’am” for mom.

Emily’s mom and dad have a pool here, too. But if you enunciate the “l” in pool, you’re not welcome to get in it. As Marshal says: “It’s poou …” 

And then there’s this whole Coke thing. The word “Coke” is synonymous with soda, even if it’s 7-Up or Mountain Dew. You say, “Can I have a Coke,” and southerners in this part of Georgia respond, “What kind?”

There are a lot of other things about the deep south that weird me out. One is the size of the bugs. I saw the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life and will never sleep well again. Not two minutes later I got clobbered in the back by a moth that was as big as a bird.

Then there’s the whole curse of Mr. Littlefield. He haunts a nearby house on Rice Ridge, and that’s all I can tell you now until our video pod on Atlanta comes out. We were stretching.

Dancing is a spectacle all to its own. You have to wear a silly hat … at least when you’re dancing in the Party Barn on Rice Ridge. You can be a Rahsta Man, you can wear a dairy hat, a horse head or you can be captain of the Love Boat. You can even pretend you’re a golfer from Ireland.

And then there’s this thing called Moonshine. If you’re not paying close attention, we’ve occasionally had a beer or two on this basecrawl, but we met our match in Dahlonega. I’d like to think I’m not a stupid, slobbering fool when I’ve had a drink or two. I don’t pass out and I don’t throw up.

But Marshall made us “kiss” this corn-liquor thing they call Moonshine. I’ve been slapped before, but YA’ALL need to listen carefully to what I’m about to say:

This is the first time I’ve ever attempted a kiss and been punched in the face.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)

By Troy Foster

BALTIMORE — I have nine shirts with me.

I began this baseball road trip with six, but along the way I picked up a “Revive 1985″ T-shirt from a bootlegger in Kansas City and a brown ”Cedar Lake Motel & Pub” shirt that clashes with my shorts. I also picked up the replica jersey I wore to our recent game in Baltimore.

It’s a Tigers jersey, and when I put it on I had no idea the Orioles were hosting Detroit that day at Camden Yards. I learned this in the car on my way to game No. 24 of our basecrawl. We were headed there with Daren’s mom, Karen, and her friend, Eva, who treated us to the best seats we’ve had so far.  

“I’m totally going to catch crap today,” I announced to our party. 

I had good reason to believe this. 

Our buddy Nolan, who accompanied us for the first seven games before getting homesick and going home, wore a Boston jersey to each game. He caught hell at all of them, regardless of whether the Red Sox were playing.

Nolan rejoined us for three games on the East Coast, and you can imagine the insults hurled his way as he tried to find his seat at Yankee Stadium. Daren, not coincidentally, walked into Yankee Stadium wearing his Mets jersey.

“There were a lot of #&%$-slingers after us,” Daren says. 

But Daren and I both agree that Yankees fans — who we intentionally provoked — were mild compared to the baseball hooligans we encountered in Chicago.

The White Sox were hosting the Cubs on June 27 in a cross-town rivalry that divided next-door neighbors, fathers from their sons and husbands from their mistresses. While a majority of fans were well-behaved, there was an extra level of vitriol present at this game.

I was amazed by some of the signs and T-shirts. This wasn’t “White Sox rule, Cubs drool,” it was “Hey Cubs, F%@& You.” And the feeling was mutual. There were T-shirts that said “FUK-U-THOME” (an insult directed at a Sox player as a play on “Fukudome,” the name of the Cubs’ right fielder). And I took a picture of a Cubs fan holding a sign with a drawing of a guy pissing on the White Sox logo. 

We saw this kind of stuff everywhere. It was like there was something in the water making everyone mean, including the undercover Chicago Police who busted Daren in a scalping sting (if you haven’t heard that story yet, you can read about it here and here).

I didn’t have a dog in this fight between the Cubbies and White Sox, or so I thought. In my mind I was a neutral observer. But the moment I arrived in the parking lot at U.S. Cellular Field, I began catching hell.

“F#%& the Tigers!”

“Wrong game, a-hole!”

“Detroit sucks!”

I couldn’t understand why these people were yelling at me. Then Daren, BaseCrawl’s resident MLB expert, informed me that the White Sox and Tigers both play in the American League Central Division. 

I don’t even like the Detroit Tigers. No, let me clarify that. I don’t even know the Detroit Tigers. I don’t know if they’re any good, I don’t know what place they’re in and I don’t know anyone who plays on their team, except for Gary Sheffield (whose rookie card I collected 20 years ago).

And guess what? I bought the Detroit jersey for the worst reason possible: I just liked the way it looked. I have no association with the Tigers.

Yet several times during this game I sensed that many White Sox fans despised me more than the guys in blue and red.

At one point in the parking lot, as Daren and I were walking against the crowd, heading back to our vehicle to drop off our main camera, I was on the wrong end of a string of obscenities. Suddenly I began trying to explain myself, telling passersby that I wasn’t really a Detroit fan.

“Dude, just stand your ground and defend yourself,” Daren said. “Act like you’re a Tigers fan and throw it back in their face.”  

Throw it? We saw plenty of that, too, but in a different way. Late in the game we saw quite the battle in the upper deck of U.S. Cellular as some Cubs and Sox fans began hurling beer bottles at each other (which we caught on film). Several ejections ensued.

After the game, the battles continued in the parking lot. Everyone wanted blood. A lot of foot traffic was passing by our vehicle, and a Cubs fan walked by me and said “I hope you kick their #&$&.”

I thought about telling him that I’m not actually a Detroit player, let alone a fan, but I just smiled and nodded. 

Then — and I am NOT making this up — a woman wearing a White Sox shirt walked by me and said “Boston sucks!”

“This isn’t a ‘B,’ it’s a ‘D,’” I responded, pointing to my jersey, then pushing my arms out in a hopeless gesture.

Not three minutes later — I swear I am still NOT making this up — another inebriated woman looked at me and shouted: “Dodgers suck!”

“I KNOW!” I said.

My day at U.S. Cellular Field in a Detroit jersey was fresh in my mind as we entered the gates of Camden Yards. “Throw it back in their face,” Daren had said. I tried to prepare myself with a few comebacks for Baltimore fans.

“Oh yeah, well at least I don’t root for a bird.”

“Hey I just got a call on my cell phone. It was the Devil Rays and they asked for last place back.”

“Nice baseball card, f#%& face!“

Surprisingly, though, not an ill word was said to me as I walked in. I didn’t even sense any dirty glances.

Daren and I went through a stretch where we were running thin on angles for our video pods, so we were really stretching once again at this game. I decided to have an artist paint me to add something — anything! — to this pod.

I had to sit still in a chair as the artist studied my features. Meanwhile, three tough-looking Baltimore fans walked up and started watching my caricature take shape. I expected one of them to tell me I was ugly, but they smiled and one of them told me it looked great. (So great, in fact, that when I eventually saw the finished product I thought it looked better than me).

These three guys turned out to be from South Africa. One of them was a U.S. resident and rugby-turned-Orioles fan. The other two were visiting cousins, and their host had taken them out to the ball game. As we’ve continued to observe on this basecrawl, going out to the ball game isn’t so much about the ball game as it is having a good time with friends and loved ones. It’s a social event where having a hot dog, drinking a beer and catching up on old times can sometimes be more entertaining than the action on the field. 

The Tigers went on to win this game, but nobody ever said a derogatory word toward me. I cheered every time Detroit scored a run, and I even clapped when Jay Payton robbed Sheffield of a home run with one of those spectacular, leaping catches above the outfield wall. I’m not sure I have ever seen a play like that in person.

Although I was surprised not to catch any grief, Daren pointed out that Baltimore and Detroit are not natural rivals. They’re in different divisions of the American League. 

But I left the game wanting to believe that there’s something different about Orioles fans, that there’s an inherent goodness in their character. I wanted to believe that they were glad to see me at their game, wearing my Tigers jersey. I wanted to believe that they possess the true spirit of sportsmanship.

Or maybe it’s just that most White Sox fans are morons.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)

By Troy Foster

WASHINGTON, D.C — Daren and I have seen a lot of baseball games this summer. And as each game goes by, our list of grievances grows.

It just so happened that game 23 of our baseball road trip brought us to the nation’s capitol. We realized this was the perfect place to exercise our rights as Americans, so after watching the hometown Nationals get piss-pounded by Houston, Daren and I decided to take our message to the streets. 

We’re not going to take this sitting down.

Our first stop was the U.S. Supreme Court. I’ve been witness to many protests over the years, but I’ve never participated in one, and neither has Daren.

We were both very nervous, but felt morally obligated to speak out.

Daren was the first to go. He walked up to the base of the steps of our hightest court, opened his bag and raised his protest sign. 

“Save the Apple!“

Apparently protesting comes with a few guidelines, because the Homeland Security goons were all over Daren like Larry Craig on a guy in a bathroom.

I heard a loud voice shout an order behind me. Daren kept his sign up, but whispered: “Here they come.”

Two officers confronted us. One ordered Daren to put away his sign and walk away from the court building. I thought about showing him the First Amendment, but he was tall, buff and intimidating. And I didn’t want to get thrown in GITMO for seven years.

Instead I asked him a simple question: “Why?”

“Because it’s not allowed,” he retorted.

I could tell this conversation had been repeated hundreds of times, and the officer was tired of explaining this stuff … kind of like the way I felt when Sage asked me to explain football. 

After he was done posturing — and maybe after he saw the message on Daren’s sign — he eased up a little. He told us we could say anything we wanted. We just had to move back to the sidewalk to exercise our rights.

We followed these instructions without further incident.

Daren pulled out another sign: “Stealing Second is Illegal.”

Then I pulled out the message I have been saying since the beginning of our basecrawl: “Bring back the Kingdome.”

The only thing more ridiculous than the signs we were holding were the reactions on people’s faces. As Daren reintroduced his “Save the Apple!” sign, a nervous anxiety washed over many of the tourists around us.

People gasped and pointed. 

“Oh my God, look!” 

“There’s a guy protesting!” 

“What does he want?”

“What’s the apple?”

We also took our protest to the front steps of Congress. We didn’t want a repeat of our confrontation with the armed lawmen, so instead of busting out the signs we approached a Capitol Police officer to tell him what we were about to do. We also wanted to know whether exercising our rights would be considered a threat to national security.

He looked at Daren’s hat. “If you’re going to pull out a ‘Go Mets’ sign you can’t be anywhere near here.” 

This guy was Homeland Security by day, Phillies fan by night. And Daren had the perfect response: “Say Yes to Contraction,” which included anti-Philadelphia epithet.   

I also delivered this message to our congressman: “Impeach the DH.” I mean, seriously, pitchers are such babies. Batter up, you wussies! 

I’ve always felt that if pitchers don’t have to hit, then “Batters deserve at least four strikes,” and I made as much clear at the Washington Monument. I say this because I batted around .100 during my last year of competitive baseball. This was sometime in the early 1990s, and if I just had one more swing available I think I could have boosted it to .250.

OK, so we were being Major League A-holes at the nation’s capitol. 

Daren and I even felt a tinge of guilt as we held our signs near some pro-life demonstrators at the high court. They were much more serious about their cause.

One tourist who was watching Daren with a confused look turned to me and asked: “What are you guys protesting?”

“We’re just having fun with democracy,” I told him, “because we can.”

As we toured all of D.C.’s memorials, we were reminded of this and all the sacrifices that have been made so Daren and I could march around and make fools of ourselves. We also were reminded of the wrong choices our leaders have made, and as I looked at the thousands of names etched into the Vietnam Memorial, I told Daren: “It’s amazing that we keep repeating the same mistakes.”

All of our “protest” signs were attempts at humor, except for one. I was somewhat reluctant to hold this one up at first, because it veered from the light-hearted nature of our video pod.

But as the sun was setting on this chapter of BaseCrawl, I decided to pull it out (and rather than explain it, you can view it here). The first person who saw my sign was a jogger, but he breezed on by. I knew this sign wasn’t going to change the world.

A moment later, however, the jogger turned around and headed back toward me. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, but when he reached me he extended a sweaty arm and asked if I would shake his hand.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com).

By Troy Foster

HOBART, N.Y. — “Baseball, like no other sport, is a pastime built on nostalgia.”

I saw these words at the National Baseball Hall of Fame. They resonated with me, because, like I’ve said so many times before, it’s not the game of baseball that fascinates me, it’s the culture. The history.

We recently paid a visit to Cooperstown to immerse ourselves in baseball lore. This small town in Upstate New York is straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, and if you don’t believe me look at the effect it had on Daren. (You have to click on that link to know what I’m talking about). 

Cooperstown hasn’t been our only brush with baseball nostalgia. 

A week ago we got a personal tour of the Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory by a very genteel man named Bill. We were interested in learning a little more about the emerging maple bat controversy, and in the process learned a lot about how this factory cranks out 3,000 bats per day, which players get them and who’s entitled to a personalized signature.

This museum also is home to the largest baseball bat in the world – a 120-foot replica of Babe Ruth’s model R43. We just crossed the halfway point on our basecrawl, so I decided to knock on wood for good luck. I also wanted to see if it was made out of maple or ash. Turned out to be 68,000 pounds of carbon steel, thank you very much.

In Kansas City, we were fortunate to visit the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. You might be tempted to think of the negro leagues as a sad symbol of segregation — a shameful side of our pastime. While that’s certainly part of the angle, their legacy would be shortchanged if it were that limited. 

The various negro leagues were a spectacle all to their own. They deserve to be celebrated for their rich, colorful history and a cast of characters that went by names like Turkey, Jelly or Cool Papa Bell. Some of the greatest baseball players of all time — Major League or otherwise — played in these leagues; guys like Satchel Paige (55 career no-hitters), Josh Gibson (nearly 800-lifetime homers; 69 in 1934 alone) and Jackie Robinson.

What you also might not know is that the players and owners that comprised these teams were innovators. The Kansas City Monarchs pioneered modern-day night games, beginning them in 1930 — five years before the first Major League night game took place in Cincinnati. And the first professional women baseball players participated alongside men in the negro leagues. 

This is no longer lost upon the Hall of Fame. Thirty-five of its inductees played exclusively in the negro leagues.

As I toured the museum in Cooperstown, I was reminded of this and the recent events that re-introduced me to a sport I had seemingly forgotten. 

My alma mater, Oregon State, was well-represented in the Hall. One display noted their status as baseball’s 2007 College World Series Champions – an amazing story of overcoming inherent disadvantages that can’t be matched by anyone, except maybe the team that won it the year before. 

Another display featured the baseball bat Jacoby Ellsbury used in the 2007 World Series. Jacoby grew up in a small Central Oregon town where he dominated the headlines of a newspaper called The Madras Pioneer, my first employer out of college.

Now that I think of it, Jacoby and I have a lot in common. We both lived in Madras, we both went to Oregon State and now he plays for the Boston Red Sox. He also has a World Series ring and a million dollar contract coming.

Meanwhile, I play for … and have … and … uh … well, nevermind. 

My parents knew Cooperstown was on our basecrawl itinerary, and after our visit Mom sent me an e-mail that said: “Just wanted to know if you jumped the fence and ran the bases today?”

Just like that, an old memory was dusted off and brought down from the shelf. My dad had jumped the fence at Doubleday Field 18 years earlier and ran the bases, despite signs and other indicators that insisted otherwise. He lamented my 12-year-old self for not immediately following, and I finally joined him in sheer terror. We made it around the bases without getting caught. At least that’s how I remember it.

That was back in the fall of 1990, back when the Oakland A’s were gods and baseball was the center of my universe. All these years later, I was delighted — and surprised — to see one of my childhood heroes, Dennis Eckersley, immortalized at the Hall. 

But it’s memories of dad running the bases at Doubleday Field and another kind of pastime that’s caught my attention lately.

Just an hour from Cooperstown is a small hamlet called Hobart. This is your picturesque Upstate town, with locally owned businesses, funny idiosyncrasies and typical town squabbles. This also is the place where my good friend and traveling companion grew up.

In the past five days I’ve met Daren’s mother, father (again), his incredibly sweet grandparents and a few of his childhood friends. I’ve seen the Little League field he played on and the secret places he used to sneak away to drink beer.

From the beginning, Daren has insisted there’s more to this basecrawl than cold beer, couches or a game that’s played on a field. 

I think he’s onto something. Because here in his old stomping ground, I have experienced a different kind of nostalgia. I have explored a different kind of pastime. I’ve met a unique family. I’ve felt love.

And I like it here.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)

By Troy Foster

CINCINNATI — We should stop feeling sorry for ourselves.

We’ve both made a few passing references to it lately. I also promised two blogs ago that I would say a word about what, until recently, had been slowing us down.

As Daren and I were standing at “Club Red” in Cincinnati tonight, taking in the view of the game from center field on Day 40 of this baseball road trip, my traveling companion said something that really hit home.

“A year from now, we’ll look back and say that this was the greatest trip of all time,” he said.

He’s got to be right. We’ll scoff at all the trivial things that have been bothering us lately. Since we saw the Detroit Tigers lose at home eight days ago, we went through a rough stretch of fatigue and lethargy that neither of us have ever felt before.

We recently attended four games in as many days — two in Chicago, one in Cleveland and one in a foreign country. During the Toronto Blue Jays game, I saw Daren do something I never thought I’d ever see in my life. He fell asleep. DURING THE GAME!

Sure, it’s a baseball game, but this is Daren — the penultimate baseball FREAK. When he gets cut, chalk from the first-base line pours out of the wound, and when he’s stressed he sweats hotdog mustard.

If you’ve read my previous posts, you might have already heard my thoughts on the principle of marginal utility. So I was reluctant to even write about this subject tonight, because the last thing anyone should feel is pity for two guys going to every Major League Baseball stadium in North America.

But we spent most of our time in Toronto sleeping. After the daytime Blue Jays game, we checked into a youth hostel (and thankfully didn’t get carded) at a run-down dormitory on the campus of Toronto University. I took one of those woozy, mid-day naps that last several hours and got up around 7 p.m. — right after Daren started his own nap, which ended around midnight. He was screwed.

Weird things are happening to our bodies. I’ve basically written off exercise until this thing is over, and if I’m not careful I’m going to need Jared’s old pants. Daren, on the other hand, has been LOSING weight and is starting to look like Skeletor.

We don’t really know what’s going on. But the fatigue I felt in Toronto was tantamount to the way I felt during the summer of ’06, when I spent much of June and July in bed and was convinced I was dying until a nurse practitioner told me I had mono.

So as we were standing on a ledge in center field tonight, watching the Reds get hammered by the Pirates in their own Great American Ball Park, three guys next to us initiated a friendly conversation. They asked us where we had been, and where we were going. Like many people before, they expressed their admiration for the chance we were taking.

We said something to the effect of being burned out lately, and I might have mentioned — again — something about the principle of marginal utility.

But, really, it’s time to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. Because these wonderful gentlemen were excited to hear all about our travels. They gave us some words of encouragement, and one of the guys said, “You’ll get your second wind in as you enter the final leg.”

Daren and I agreed tonight to stop complaining about how hard our lives are, and this will be the final word about fatigue that you hear from me. We got two good nights of sleep in Columbus at the apartment of my friend and former, who was incredibly gracious and sweet to two Major League Assholes. Now we’re ready to put our game faces back on.

After all, Daren said doing a BaseCrawl is like being a rock star on tour — you know, with the traveling and all.

The only difference is Daren can’t sing, I’m horrible at guitar, and when we arrive at these incredible ballparks, nobody cares.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com).

CLEVELAND — My father always reminds me of the principle of marginal utility.

You know how it goes, right? If you give me one cookie, I get really excited. But if you give me 10 cookies, I find less utility in each individual cookie than I would have found in the original if you had just given me one. 

OK, that’s a mouthful, and maybe cookies aren’t the most appropriate analogy for our continuing narrative on baseball.

But I bring up the principle of marginal utility to preface my story about our experience at Progressive Field in Cleveland, Ohio.

This game was the 15th on our baseball road trip. We’re halfway done! I know a lot of my friends back home are jealous of what Daren and I are doing and think this is some kind of self-indulgent vacation by two jerks with unlimited time and cash (not true).

Knowing that some people might feel this way, I figure they also might be irritated by what I’m about to say. 

I didn’t really want to go to this game. In fact, when I was still outside the stadium, standing next to my Jeep as I heard the crowd roar over some exciting play inside, I yawned.

It’s a principle of marginal utility.

Daren and I had just finished interviewing some protesters outside the stadium who — in my mind — are rightfully upset over Chief Wahoo, the Cleveland mascot, for its dopey, degrading characterization of Native Americans.

After shadowing these folks for a while, we went back to our Jeep in the parking garage, cracked our cooler and enjoyed a beer while talking about everything but baseball. I didn’t care about the game.

It’s a principle of marginal utility.

The game had probably reached the third inning by the time Daren spotted The Guy. He was perched on a building at the top level of our parking garage. 

We used the zoom on “Gobbles” (that’s what we call Camera No. 2) to get a closer look. We could see that The Guy was sitting on a lawn chair, eating a banana and rocking back and forth. The Guy had used a ladder to get to the top of this building, and we were certain he had a great view of the field. We were also certain of something he didn’t have: a ticket.

Daren and I looked at each other. Before either of us said a word, we reached a telepathic agreement in the way good friends do. We were going to climb that ladder and join him.

The Guy saw us coming, and as we approached what we thought was his private hiding place, he moved toward the ladder. I expected The Guy to simultaneously grab the ladder, raise it out of our reach and raise his middle finger. But instead The Guy gave us a huge grin and motioned us to climb up.

I refer to him fondly as The Guy because he asked us not to use his name. We also agreed not to film him, and while normally I would have been horribly disappointed by this, the novelty of where we were and what we were doing erased my consternation.

It turned out The Guy wasn’t a squatter at all. He was THE GUY … as in the guy who sets off the fireworks at all the Cleveland games. 

In my opinion, he has the coolest seat in the house. We were atop a parking garage building with a broad, panoramic view of the field, not to mention all the women in section 504 and the Market Pavilion.

The Guy told us that he and Another Guy take turns sitting atop this building, switching off every other game. When Cleveland hits a home run, it’s their job to flip the switch that sends fireworks skyward over Progressive Field.

We told The Guy that we were traveling to all 30 MLB stadiums, and he invited us to sit with him for the remainder of the game (which had already reached the fourth inning).

“If you guys are up here when I send off the fireworks, it’ll be the loudest noise you’ve heard in your entire life,” The Guy said.

I believed him. He pointed to cracks in the tile roof that had been caused by noise and pressure. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be up here when the loudest noise I’d ever heard destroyed my eardrums. But something kept me. Maybe it was the novelty of sitting on cinder blocks, watching the game in a place we weren’t supposed to be. Or maybe it was that heading into the actual stadium would invoke the principle of marginal utility.

It was clear The Guy enjoyed our company, because he told us he could get in trouble for having us up there, but he never asked us to leave. We even volunteered to get out of his way.

“Nah, stay,” he said.

The Guy also does fireworks for the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Browns. He clearly loved his job, and he smiled and nodded when we asked him if the pay was good. 

He told us there had been two known screw-ups since his company took over the fireworks contract. One was an accident with the switch, but the other was due to the one limitation of sitting in this spot. A substitute fireworks guy from the corporate office had sat here for one game. It just happened to be Opening Day, and The Guy told us that people cheer louder on this day than the rest. A Cleveland player hit a long, deep ball down the left-field line and the crowd went nuts. The substitute flipped the switch and fireworks went hurling into the air, signaling a home run.

The Cleveland player stopped at second base with a double.

This rooftop where The Guy sits doesn’t have an all-encompassing view, but I still think it’s the best seat in the house, and so does The Guy. Yet to avoid the same mistake as the substitute, The Guy keeps a radio next to his lawn chair to listen to the announcers when a deep ball sneaks out of his view.

There would be no home runs on this day for Cleveland as the visiting Cincinnati Reds ran away with a 5-0 victory. The only fireworks were during “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which we missed while talking to a group of Americans whose heritage had been trivialized at a place called Progressive Field.

Daren and I eventually left the rooftop to preserve the mission. One game at all 30 Major League Baseball stadiums probably requires that we go in each stadium, too.

As I took my seat on the first-base side in the upper deck just two rows from the very top, I looked across the field at The Guy sitting at his secret place — the best seat in the house.

Then I looked around me, sighed, and began pondering the principle of marginal utility.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)

From Cleveland

By Troy Foster

COLUMBUS, Ohio — It feels like I’ve been falling so far behind. Eleven days have passed with no blog entries out of my camp.

There are many reasons for this. One sticks out the most, but I think I’ll tuck that one away and write about it tomorrow. I’d like to catch up first by discussing one or two interesting things related to baseball we’ve come across since my last writing.

Let’s see …

I could talk about the Curse of the Billy Goat, and the nephew of the Greek immigrant who keeps it alive at a small tavern in downtown Chicago.

I could talk about the best baseball movies of all time, and how a very sloppy, unscientific poll of Minnesota Twins fans gave us a completely accurate picture of the top three: “Bull Durham,” “Field of Dreams” and “The Sandlot.”

Or I could talk about the best way to score an autograph at a baseball game, thanks to the wisdom of two pros who have used their charm, wits and stunning curves to get their baseballs signed by Brewers.

I could even talk about how great it was to have Dad around for two games in Chicago.

I might come back to all these subjects, but for now I have to add my $0.02 to the little incident that almost landed Daren in jail five days ago.

Daren has written a much more titillating summary of his encounter with the Chicago Police Department that you can read here.

But to recap, my BaseCrawl buddy attempted to sell two extra tickets we had to the White Sox-Cubs game. This activity was part of our greater project. At every city we visit, we pursue a unique story related to Major League Baseball, but rarely is the story about baseball itself.

We chose ticket scalping as our topic for Friday’s interleague game between the Chicago Cubs and Chicago White Sox. It was a sold-out affair, and we felt it was the perfect opportunity to explore the whole culture ticket trading — the free market in its purest form.

I hope you have already read Daren’s recount of getting busted, and if you haven’t, I’ll remind you again that you can read it here. As this was all going down, I was standing across the street catching the whole thing with my camera.

Call me naive, but I didn’t know what Daren was doing was illegal. I still fail to see how this is any different than what the price gougers at www.StubHub.com have done to us several times already, including some of the tickets we bought for this game. 

We’ve seen ticket scalpers at every game so far. In the parking lot of Miller Park, a guy sold us two nosebleeds for $20 apiece, then bragged about how he had just made $1,000 in two hours. He said he owned a ticket brokerage, produced a business card and told us he was heading to the Sox-Cubs series to make a bundle. (Not surprisingly, he didn’t want to talk to us on camera).

Often, these guys operate in broad daylight. We presume they work in teams, too. There are guys working far away from the stadiums, wearing signs that say “I need tickets.” They buy their tickets from everyday fans who might have an extra to burn. These tickets, we assume, are then passed to the guys working the interior and sold at a higher price.

It’s all a game of margins.

At some of the ballparks we’ve seen these guys wearing walkie-talkies, too. Teamwork isn’t limited to the playing field. 

While I was watching Daren get busted, the cops asked — between obscenities — who he was working with. Actually they demanded it, and punctuated the point with several F-bombs. They wanted to know who else was involved in this “racket.” 

Thankfully Daren didn’t mention me, or divulge that we were working in this capacity as journalists, or point out that I was standing across the street filming this encounter. I was fairly close to the action and I knew I was within my legal right to film this bust. But I’m not so foolish to think that lawmen don’t sometimes make mistakes, or unwittingly infringe upon one of our key rights they are sworn to protect. Back in my newspaper days, a traffic cop once tried to take my camera and film at the scene of an accident. Two years later a firefighter nearly threw me to the ground after he gave me an ORDER! — that I IGNORED! — to stop taking pictures of his buddy climbing a ladder to a burning building.

So as the obscenities began flying and I saw the sweat beading on Daren’s forehead, I put my camera down to my waist but kept rolling. I also pulled off my headphones and began talking to a guy with a clipboard who was asking for donations. I’ve never paid so much attention to one of these guys in my life.

I even agreed to give him some money if he would just keep talking.

I wasn’t even entirely sure Daren was being busted until the swearing started. Apparently these guys were pissed of they had drawn the short straw and missed out on the stop sign sting. 

If ticket scalping is against the law, and Daren broke it, then I guess there’s really nothing we can complain about. But I still don’t understand why they had to bring up Jesus Christ, the F-bomb and threaten Daren with jail time. Because, when you put all the posturing aside, busting people for selling tickets can be summed up in one word. 

Charade.

A day later in Cleveland, a scalper offered us tickets and a parking pass not 10 feet away from a uniformed officer. We were still in our Jeep, and as I hung a 10 dollar bill out the window for the parking pass the scalper said, “I can’t take that. You have to get out and walk over here or that cop will arrest me.”

If that’s the difference between this guy making $1,000 in two hours and Daren losing $500 in 5 minutes, then this is a joke. 

I can think of more productive tasks cops can perform on the taxpayers’ dime. The real scalpers in Chicago obviously know their way around the system, just like the ticket broker from Milwaukee or the dude in Cleveland who got away with an illegal transaction just because I stepped out of my Jeep. 

If the Chicago police really want to take a bite out of price gouging, I can suggest the perfect place to start: 

How about those jerks INSIDE the stadium selling beer for $8.50?

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)

By Troy Foster

? — We arrived here around 7:30.

I’d been sleeping for close to an hour, Daren was tired of driving and we decided it was time to make a call to the bullpen.

We were on some interstate in Iowa or Minnesota, probably an hour and a half removed from the Field of Dreams, where we’d shagged balls and played catch like movie stars.

Daren took the next exit, we wandered into a town with the scars of flood damage still evident, found the first hotel, paid $42 and unpacked our gear.

The bottom floor of this hotel is in shambles. They’ve torn the carpets out, beds line the hallways and a large trash bin stuffed with ruined furniture sits just outside. The guy at the front desk told me the flood waters receded just a week ago. 

We’re up here on the second floor, but this room seems just as dilapidated. Daren found cigarette butts behind his bed, the AC is keeping this room a cool 82 degrees and there’s no Bible in the drawer.

I felt claustrophobic the second I entered room 262, so I told Daren I was going for a walk to explore the town.

“I’m staying right here,” he said.

I began walking in the direction of nowhere in particular and realized this was one of the first times I’d been by myself on the entire trip. My wandering took me to a mall just a few blocks away. It was a tiny mall that said open until 9 p.m., but more than half the stores were closed.

My thoughts returned to baseball just once on this jaunt, as I walked into a store called Trader Jack’s and talked to Mark, the owner, and another young man about the water-logged baseball cards they were peeling out of a box. The floods showed no mercy.

My wandering took me to the opposite end of the mall, and when I walked out I was suddenly in what appeared to be downtown.

I certainly thought it was a strange place to put a mall. Then I began to imagine town improvement committees, failed urban renewal efforts and poorly attended parades. I didn’t know anything about this place, but I couldn’t help wonder if this was the type of town the brightest sons left as soon as they could. Time to get the hell out of Dodge, right?

Dodge?

It also occurred to me that I didn’t even know the name of this town.

As I looked around I couldn’t see another human soul, either. This place felt strange. This place felt like a ghost town. The dilapidated nature of our hotel extended out into every corridor of this weird city. And where had all the people gone?

It wasn’t until I came to the town square that I saw another man sitting on a bench. Here is where I also discovered the name of this place carved into a veterans memorial.

Traveling is my favorite pastime, even more than baseball. It’s pretty simple: I like the idea of being in places I’ve never been before.

Wandering. 

It occurred to me on this walk that I was in the middle of nowhere. It’s the first time I’ve been here, and it will also be the last.

So right now, this is the coolest place in the world.

(You can read more about this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)