Chapter 3

Getting to Camden Yards -- even as a ticket-buying fan -- proved to be more difficult than I'd anticipated. My team had a game almost every night, and so did the Orioles. They were out of town half the time on road trips, and so were the Bowie Baysox.

However, the times the Orioles were out of town and the times the Baysox were out of town didn't coincide. There was no correlation whatsoever. The schedule-makers, presumably, had a lot of complicated goals to accomplish, and avoiding conflicts with minor league franchises wasn't very high on the list -- if it was on the list at all. I started noticing that my times for getting up to Baltimore to catch a game were going to be few and far between.

Finally there came a day when we had an afternoon game at home, and the Orioles were, as usual, playing that evening. I found myself free of obligations to the Baysox by a little after four p.m., and with our own next game not scheduled until the following night. The Orioles were at home against the Yankees, and I decided that I would, by golly, go.

The opposition being the Yankees, though, created something of a problem. Since the Orioles had started winning again a few years back, their attendance had gone back up. Most games were near-sellouts. And when the Red Sox or the Yankees were in town, it was a sure-fire sellout, because those clubs brought in fans of their own that filled up any and all seats in Camden Yards that weren't already secured by local people.

Even in the long period of Oriole doldrums a few years back, they had drawn well when either of the Division's premier franchises was in town. Players used to complain that there was more noise coming from the stands when the Red Sox did something positive on the field than there was for our Bird guys.

I knew enough about the goings-on in Baltimore to realize that getting a ticket might be problematic. Oh, I could take pot luck outside the stadium and buy one from some scalper -- or just some fan whose plans had changed and he'd found himself holding one or more expensive tickets he couldn't use. I could do that -- probably successfully -- but why should I? After all, I was a major league-caliber player myself (or almost, anyway). I had a Lifetime Average in the major leagues of .500. Hell, even Ichiro couldn't say that. Well he could say it -- in Japanese, anyway -- but the point is, it wouldn't be true.

OK, so my .500 average wasn't exactly a fair indicator of my likely lifetime average, long-term. But I was By God in the Encyclopedia of Baseball (or would be, in the next edition) and they'd back me up: I was a lifetime .500 hitter.

No major league veteran like me should have to buy a ticket with his own hard-earned minor league paycheck anyway. I was entitled to better treatment than that. All I had to do was call one of the players, or the club's front office, and somebody would leave a complimentary ticket for me at the "Will Call" window.

So I called the Orioles front office, and nobody answered. Well, it wasn't even 5 p.m. yet, but apparently they had bankers' hours in that place. I didn't have any other phone numbers associated with the ballpark. I asked Information for a number for the clubhouse, but they couldn't find any such number.

Damn!

Well, I had my cell phone, and I knew I was going to go to a game that night, even if I had to cop a ticket from some fan outside the stadium as a last resort. So I got into my four-year-old Honda Civic and headed north.

I saw a Texas Steakhouse sign ahead and decided I had time for a decent meal before the game. While I was waiting for my steak, I borrowed a Baltimore telephone directory from the receptionist out front and looked up the number of BirdSports Network -- also with offices in the Warehouse next to Camden Yards.

Back at my table but still steakless, I called BirdSports. It was well after 5:30 by now, but BirdSports' telephone was manned -- or womaned, anyway. "BirdSports!" a cheery female voice said, with a lot more piss and vinegar than anyone had any right to expect of an employee at 5:30 p.m. I wondered whether she'd reluctantly taken my call as she was trying to go out the door for home.

"Hello?" I said. "I wondered if... maybe... Josie Fitzgerald was in the office?"

"Sorry, no," she said. "... Nobody here but us proletarians."

"Would you... maybe... have a telephone number where I could reach her?... I'm a... friend."

There was a silence on the other end. I figured the woman at BirdSports was thinking to herself, "Yeah, I'll bet you're a friend."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not authorized to give out that information."

"Well, of course you're not," I agreed. "But, listen: Would it be too much trouble for you to contact her, for me? Ask her for a callback, on my number?"

"I can try," she said. "I can call her -- once -- and if she answers, I'll give her your message. But I'm about to leave here, and if she doesn't answer her phone, or if I can't leave a message on it for her, I'm afraid you'll be out of luck."

"That's OK," I said. "That's more than OK. It's very kind of you. Here's my number..."

She faithfully recorded my number and I thanked her again and hung up. Probably, I thought, Josie Fitzgerald would have forgotten, by now, who the hell Freddie Brumbelow was. Or, even if she hadn't forgotten my name, she'd raise her eyebrows at the message and decide against calling me back.

But I knew that if she did call back, she'd be in a position to arrange for a complimentary ticket to the game that night to be left for me at Will Call.

The steak was tough and the baked potato was burnt and I was gradually getting out of sorts. We'd lost the game that afternoon and I'd gone oh-for-four. It hadn't been a particularly good day already, and seemed to be getting worse.

But my cell phone rang and it was Josie Fitzgerald herself.

She sounded just as perky as the Unknown Phone Answerer at BirdSports Network had. It must be a job requirement there.

"Hey, Freddie!... How's it going?"

"Good," I told her, thinking again of my oh-for-four afternoon. "Thanks for returning my call."

"No problem. What's happening?... Listen, I felt bad about not getting a chance to say anything to you, before you got sent back down."

"Not your fault," I said. "It happened pretty abruptly -- just like my manager in Bowie said it would. One moment I was at BWI with the Orioles, and the next minute, I was at the cab stand, heading for Bowie."

"Yeah, but... anyway."

"Listen, Josie. I'm on my way up to see tonight's game, and I haven't got a ticket. I was wondering if you had access to complimentary tickets -- or even to tickets I could buy -- and could help me get into the game?"


"Just one ticket? Nobody with you?"

"Nope. We had an afternoon game, so my evening was free. You know how rare that is. So I decided to come up, see Camden Yards for the first time."

"Sure I can get you into the game," she said. "But wouldn't you rather sit in the BirdSports' box? We've got a luxury box at Oriole Park -- it's great! Glassed in. Air-conditioned. Beer, Coke, food -- you name it. I'll get you a pass into the box -- OK?"

"Gosh, Josie, that would be great!"

"You'll still have to go to Will Call, I guess, to pick up the pass, but don't worry, I'll see to it. It won't be a problem."

"I'm dressed kinda casually," I warned.

"It's a ballgame, Freddie," she said. "Even in the luxury boxes, people don't dress up much."

"This is really great. I really appreciate it."

"Just remember me when you're a big-time major leaguer," she said, "and I'm still just the little blonde who does jock interviews."

"Will you be up there, in the luxury box, during the game?"

"That's not where I hang out, no," she said. "I'll be doing my usual on-the-field stuff, and interviewing people in the stands between innings. You know the drill... But if you hang around until the end, I'll maybe see you up there, after the game's over."

"I'll wait."

"I could get tied up with something. If I don't show up, don't be too surprised," she warned.

"OK. But I'll wait around, for a little while... I'd... like to see you. You know -- just to say hi in person, and thank you for doing this."

"I'll try to get up there, a few minutes after the game. I gotta interview a player, right after."

"I know. I watch you all the time."

"You can watch me tonight, on one of the monitors in the BirdSports box."

"I will... And thanks, again."

The game was a true spectacle. I had been impressed, in Minneapolis, in Seattle, Oakland and Anaheim, at the healthy baseball crowds, the hometown enthusiasm, and the sheer pageantry of major league ball. But now I'd been back in the nice, quiet minors for several weeks, and I'd been re-acclimated to the more leisurely pace, the smaller crowds, the less-intense atmosphere.

But the Yankees were in town, it was the heart of the season, the Orioles were in the pennant race again and the mood at Camden Yards, even before I got inside, was electric.

I had gotten lost once, just trying to find the freeway exit ramp into the ballpark, so it was almost time for the game to begin before I approached the Will Call window and identified myself. Sure enough, Josie Fitzgerald had come through for me. The clerk gave me the pass and directions to the BirdSports luxury box on the mezzanine level. On the way in, I didn't see many empty seats in the vast stadium, and was glad I hadn't relied on dumb luck to get into the game.

When I got to the luxury box, I was duly impressed. It wasn't a box seat section at all -- it was a large, long room with a serving bar at the back that ran almost the room's entire length, which must have been 70 feet. There were cushioned chairs scattered around, and little tables, and a couple of attractive hostesses taking drink orders. There was a door facing the field, and outside, on the opposite side of the plate glass, there were four rows of ordinary stadium seats, for people who might prefer to wander out into the evening air and watch the game in the traditional manner.

In both directions, the stadium stretched away from me, the stands above and below us filled with fans. Downtown Baltimore was off in the distance behind center field, and the gigantic, two-blocks-long Warehouse loomed up over the right field wall. All of this, of course, was familiar to me from television, but seeing the park in person gave me a thrill. It reminded me of the first time I'd been to a major league ballpark -- it had been Wrigley Field in Chicago and I had been a little kid, maybe eleven years old. The experience had knocked my socks off like nothing I'd ever seen. I had felt like I was in a cathedral.

There was only one Wrigley Field, and I'd seen several major league parks, and some pretty nice minor league parks, since then. But Camden Yards was truly special. I knew it was highly regarded among people who cared about such things as ballpark architecture and ambiance. Camden Yards was the first of the "new-old" parks, built during the most recent orgy of ballpark construction over the past fifteen or so years. It was still considered one of the best.

It made me proud to be in the Orioles' organization. I dreamed of playing here someday. Maybe someday not so far into the future. I felt a new resolve to succeed; to make it all the way. I didn't think of it as making it "back" to the majors. I was as aware as anyone that my first trip up, my little western swing with the Birds, had been a fluke, and nothing more.

Still, I hadn't embarrassed myself. When given my meager opportunity to play, I'd played well. I hadn't done anything unforgettable, but I hadn't stunk up the joint, either.

And I was in The Book. The Encyclopedia of Baseball. I knew it was absolutely stupid, how much I was impressed by that fact, but I went with it, anyway. Goddamn it, they could never take that away from me! I was in The Book.

That night's game was fantastic! It was a pitchers' duel for the first four innings, with neither team getting so much as a loud foul. The mutual no-hitter was broken up in the fifth when the Orioles' pitcher, Shiggie Nomura, walked the first hitter and the Yankees' monster, Alex Rodriquez, followed that with a two-run homer to left.

That quieted the crowd for a few minutes, but in the sixth the Orioles got their first hit -- a double by the Kansas City dude who'd been acquired as a fill-in so that I could be shipped back to Bowie. There were no outs when he got the hit, but there were two out when Zeke Taylor drove him home from third with a single. Then Cory Zane -- just back in the lineup after his own minor injury -- doubled, bringing Taylor in all the way from first base. Damn, for a big guy, Zeke the Streak could sure run the bases!