March 19-23 , 2003: The Grapefruit League, Florida

Spring Back to Life
Day 1 • Day 2: A Dream Doubleheader • Days 3–5

THURSDAY, MARCH 20
Florida Marlins at Los Angeles Dodgers, Holman Stadium, Vero Beach
Tampa Bay Devil Rays at New York Mets, Thomas J. White Stadium, Port St. Lucie

Aaron and I awoke early on Thursday, driving 150 miles across the Florida peninsula to Vero Beach for the first part of our trip's pièce de résistance, a two-stadium day-night doubleheader. The thermometer was up to about 90° as we arrived in Dodgertown, with the humidity making everything rather sticky as well. But Aaron and I had done everything but forge a blood oath not to make any heat-related complaints, so we just slathered on the sunblock.

Holman Stadium, which opened 51 years ago, makes Legends Field seem like Yankee Stadium. Nestled amid dozens of trees (including some palms), adjacent to a golf course, with a creek separating it from the rest of Dodgertown, it is easily the quaintest ballpark I've ever been to. Idyllic, even. Holman holds just 6,500 and every seat feels like it could attract a wayward baserunner or an errant throw. But its outfield dimensions are larger than Legends Field, a generous 340 feet down each line to go with the 400 feet to center.

For Thursday's game, our seats were on the second row of a section on the third-base side, just behind the Dodger bullpen. We watched Dodger regulars Shawn Green, Brian Jordan, Fred McGriff, and Paul Lo Duca stretch out a mere 10 yards from us while lanky celebrity headhunter Guillermo Mota warmed up in the bullpen. Children hounded the bullpen pitchers, catchers and coaches for autographs right up through the ballgame, when Paul Shuey politely refused to sign because the game was in session.

Once the game started, the Dodgers pounced on Marlins pitcher Carl Pavano. Leadoff hitter Calvin Murray reached on a bunt, and two batters later Shawn Green walloped a homer that hit a fence guarding the Dodgers' new clubhouse beyond the righfield berm. Aaron, who witnessed firsthand Green's 4-homer, 6-for-6 day last May 23 in Milwaukee, correctly predicted Green's homer, though it should be pointed out that this was the only one of his myriad predictions for the game which held up. Pavano ended up allowing three runs in his two innings, a rough day at the office.

Dodger manager Jim Tracy apparently chose this game to sift through his bullpen options. The Dodgers' starter for the day was Troy Brohawn, a journeyman reliever pitching for a spot on his third NL West organization in three years. In two respectable innings of work, Brohawn allowed two hits, both of which were erased on the basepaths; the Marlins ran aggressively all game long and were thrown out stealing three times.

Brohawn was relieved by Mota, who received a burst of heckling from a lively pair of Mets fans who stood out from among the placid Dodger faithful. This display rankled a woman directly in front of me, a forty-something season-ticket holder who needed to lay off the Dodger Dogs. After she heard me agreeing aloud that Mota was indeed a punk, she spent the rest of the ballgame muttering disparaging things about obnoxious New Yorkers, and though I yearned to "accidently" spill my large Coke down her back to prove her correct, I resisted the temptation.

For all of the controversy surrounding his plunking of and subsequent chase by the Mets' Mike Piazza, Mota can really bring it, though the book on him is that his fastball doesn't have much movement. It must have been moving on this day; Mota struck out four in his two innings, allowing an unearned run thansk to a bobble by Alex Cora and an errant throw by Lo Duca on a steal. Mota was succeeded by two innings of Tom Martin, a journeyman bidding for the spot lefty role. In a jam with men on first and third, Martin struck out Ivan Rodriguez on a breaking ball. Pudge, now wearing the Marlins' unfamiliar teal and black, had a tough day, going 0-for-3 and seeing four runs scored during his six innings behind the plate.

As the regulars began to depart after six innings, the game quickly got silly. Shuey was hammered for four consecutive hits to start the inning, though his defense wasn't giving any help. Ron Coomer played the matador at third base, waving feebly at a grounder that went to his left. First baseman Larry Barnes made a throwing error (the third of the Dodgers' four on the day), allowing a run to score. When the dust settled, four runs had scored, and the Marlins led 6-4.

An inning later, the Dodgers matched that quartet of runs on the strength of a 2-run homer by 36-year-old non-roster futilityman Terry Shumpert, an RBI double by Mike Kinkade and a single by a chastened Coomer, who really did use the pinstripes to make him look thinner. The runs came at the expense of former Dodger Mike Judd, a man with a career 7.20 ERA in the bigs. Thanks for showing up, Mike.
Final score: Dodgers 8, Marlins 6. BOX SCORE

Following the game, we set out for a Motel Six in Fort Pierce, about a 30 minute drive south of Vero Beach. A brief but intense downpour struck right as we pulled off the highway, but we eluded the worst of the storm. Our check-in at the motel proved that we weren't the only ones afflicted with this particular brand of spring fever: we were the third of seven consecutive rooms of baseball fans who had done Vero and were headed to the night's Mets-Devil Rays game at Port St. Lucie. As the check-in reached epic lengths, we made the smallest of small baseball talk with each other, sizing up allegiances by caps and t-shirts. First in line was a dumpy Mets fan with glasses, a receding hairline and sagging jeans (just shy of a crack problem, thankfully), followed by a pony-tailed Mariners fan looking to see Lou Piniella one more time, and then us (Dodger cap and classic Milwaukee Brewers t-shirt). Immediately behind us were two middle-aged brothers, one in an Astros golf shirt, the other a Cardinals cap. Eventually, we all got our rooms, I think.

Having spending the afternoon at Holman Stadium, Thomas J. White Stadium, the spring home of the Mets, was a startling contrast. With its dull, exposed concrete, the two-level park bears a bit of a resemblance to Shea. But at a capacity of 7,160, it's still intimate enough to offer some charms. Like Holman, the field dimensions are relatively spacious: 338-410-338.

The morning paper had foretold foretold Steve Trachsel as the Mets starter, with a 70% chance of somnolence (Trachsel is a notoriously slow worker). But as we arrived at the stadium and checked the night's posted lineup, we were treated to a surprise. In addition to the promise of a twin bill, I'd had an ulterior motive in booking the Mets on my Florida swing: the slim possibility of seeing my favorite pitcher, David Cone, as he bid for a spot on the Mets after a full year's layoff, signed on a whim at the behest of pitching pals John Franco and Al Leiter. Lo and behold, the 40-year-old Cone was the night's starting pitcher, his first start of the spring after three brief relief appearances. In his first two, he'd thrown perfect innings, but he'd been roughed up by the Dodgers in his most recent appearance, a 20-10 slugfest in the thin air of Mexico City. Never mind that this was only the lowly Devil Rays he was facing; this start would be a real test for Cone.

He got in trouble immediately, allowing a sharp single to Carl Crawford, the Rays' promising young leftfielder. The speedy Crawford quickly stole second, then advanced to third on an infield grounder which saw Cone hustling to first. Cone then allowed a high fly ball to rightfield off of the bat of Aubrey Huff — not deep enough to leave the park, but deep enough to score Crawford. But Cone rebounded, striking out Travis Lee looking to end the inning.

The Mets quickly got to work on Rays starter and nominal ace Joe Kennedy. Roger Cedeno doubled, stole third, and scored on a Cliff Floyd sac fly. Mike Piazza singled and scored on a long Tony Clark double into the left-center gap. Clark was apparently in the lineup to prevent me from laying waste (or waist, as the case may be) to the rumors that Mo Vaughn was actually in better shape than last year.

Sloppy infield play got Cone into more trouble in the second. Jay Bell muffed a grounder at third, then the potentially flashy keystone combo of Roberto Alomar and Rey Sanchez missed the front end of an attempted double play. Next up was former Mets shortstop Rey Ordoñez, much to the delight of the comparatively rowdy Mets fans, who booed him heartily (Ordoñez had sealed his exit from New York with a late-season tirade in which he called Mets fans stupid). With the runner on second, first base open, and the pitcher on deck, Cone worked around the weak-hitting Ordoñez, walking him, then blew away Kennedy to end the inning. In the third, Cone courted even more trouble. Crawford doubled to open the inning, then took third on Marlon Anderson's single, bringing up Huff, the Rays' best hitter. But Cone induced a grounder to Clark, then hustled to cover first to complete a 3-6-1 double play — the third time in as many innings Cone had covered the bag.

His fourth and final inning was his most impressive. With two strikes on leadoff hitter Ben Grieve, the wily Cone summoned up one of his craftier maneuvers, dropping down to deliver his trademark slider, eliciting a shout of "It's the Laredo!" from the enthusiastic fan directly behind me. Jared Sandberg struck out as well, and then Toby Hall flew to center for Cone's first 1-2-3 of the night. His totals: 4 innings pitched, 3 hits, 1 earned run, 1 walk and 4 strikeouts — a performance Cone would later say legitimated his comeback effort.

Lou Piniella, Tampa's prodigal son, looks to be in for a long summer as the Devil Rays' new manager. He popped out of the dugout a couple times to get in the umpires' faces for something or other while the Mets bled Kennedy for seven hits and a pair of walks over four innings. Reliever Delvin James must have had Sweet Lou tearing his hair out, as James blew the game open, allowing four runs in the sixth via a single by Clark, doubles by Bell and Tsuyoshi Shinjo, and a pinch-homer by Timo Perez.

I spent a bemused couple of innings having my ear bent by a retiree sitting next to me, a Missouri native who had spent a couple of years living in Manhattan in the early Seventies. He laughed as he recalled driving around the city in an old Buick that lacked a reverse gear, making parallel parking a sticky situation. And he touched an obviously still-sore spot with his dignified, thick-accented wife when he mentioned riding a Coney Island rollercoaster in an inebriated state. "It's a wonder y'all lived to tell about that," clucked the wife.

The evening still had one more surprise to offer. For the first time in twenty-some-odd trips to the ballpark since 9-11, I was at a game whose seventh-inning stretch included no obligatory patriotic display. No moment of silence, no PA blaring Kate Smith's deathless rendition of "God Bless America," just the pure, unadulterated fun of a stadium singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in unison. Trivial it was not.

After Cliff Floyd went yard in the 7th, the crowd began to thin out, perhaps hoping to avoid the untidy concept of Devil Ray scrubs. Aaron and I packed it in as well, deciding that while 16 innings wasn't too much of a good thing, it was still enough baseball for one day.
Final score: Mets 8, Rays 2 BOX SCORE

Days 3–5: If It's Saturday, This Must Be Tampa