An Opening Day With a Little Pageantry, Lot of Commentary

Ah, Opening Day. Yes, capital letters are appropriate for major league baseball’s Opening Day. It is a holiday, of sorts.

If not, it is special.

Balloons and pigeons. Red-white-and-blue bunting. Sarah Vaughn attempting to sing the National Anthem, that most unsingable of songs.

Of course, Opening Day is not like that for all baseball fans. Not all of them had the time (or money) to ride planes, trains, cars or hot air balloons to Dodger Stadium Monday. Not all of them were a part of the pageantry.

To absorb the common man’s Opening Day, I visited a place where summer is eternal. There might be times when summer is colder, such as December or January, and times when a heavy “mist” leaves an inch of moisture in its wake. Regardless, it is always summer.

This place would be Mission Beach, where Boys of Autumn sit on a celebrated bench and sip suds and Boys of Spring wheel through the alleys on wide-body skateboards with short-body surfboards under their arms. No one seems to graduate into long pants.

Far from the hollering at Dodger Stadium, a handful of men hunkered down in a saloon for an afternoon of watching the local heroes gun for Fernando Villainzuela and those dastardly Dodgers.

As Pedro Guerrero hobbled up the dugout steps to throw out the ceremonial first ball, there were a half-dozen faithful gazing at one of four television sets strategically placed to provide a clear view from just about everywhere but the bench across the street. Since these television sets were all elevated near the ceiling, these fellows all looked like Villainzuela with their pupils affixed on the heavens.

Little did they know, as they watched Guerrero, that he was moving about as quickly as some of the Padres would appear to be moving before the afternoon was over.

That is getting a little ahead of the story of an afternoon with genuine fans, each with what seemed like his own personal television set. Others would come and go, some wondering who was winning and others, like a couple of guys from Ohio, wondering who was playing.

I determined that I would sit by myself and operate like a National Enquirer mole in Madonna’s boudoir.

This is the way it was on Opening Day away from where it was . . .

The camera pans the Padres’ hierarchy, known more informally as either Joan Kroc and Co. or Joan Kroc and Family.

“There’s a lot of money sitting there,” mused a fan.

“Yeh,” said a guy around a post. “A lot of cheeseburgers.”

Guerrero, on crutches, gingerly descends the steps to the Dodger dugout.

“I hate the Dodgers,” said the bartender, “but I hated to see Guerrero get hurt. I’ve got Mike Marshall in a rotisserie league. He’ll never get anything to hit with the big guy out.”

Later, he would be celebrating, explaining that Marshall can have his home runs as long as the Padres win.

Sportscaster Jerry Coleman identifies the umpires and explains that John McSherry, the rotund one, would be at first base.

“He’s at first base,” a viewer remarked, “because there’s not enough room for him behind the plate.”

Obviously, there would be two lines of commentary. There would be Coleman and Co. on television and the guys on the stools with hats marked OTL, World Famous, Poway Baseball, Beachcomber and CAT.

Bip Roberts, the Padres’ rookie second baseman, strikes out on three pitches in his first big league at-bat. The Dodgers’ first batter, Mariano Duncan, hits a sizzling line drive to Roberts.

“He may have caught it,” said a man behind a draft beer, “but he never saw it.”

“He never saw any of those pitches either,” retorted a companion.

The Dodgers’ Kenny Landreaux lofts a short popup over short, and Garry Templeton catches it with typical ease. Coleman observes that Templeton got such a great jump he almost over-ran it.

“Almost over-ran it,” snorted an onlooker. “Baloney. (I’ll occasionally use euphemisms in this report.) Coleman thinks he’s on radio. He forgets that we can see.”

Poor Coleman is explaining that pitcher Eric Show will “have to stay in shape and on his feed” if he is going to out-pitch the vaunted Villainzuela.

The room is full of snickering.

“On his feed?” someone guffawed. “What does that mean?”

Shortly thereafter, Templeton singled off Villainzuela--and two voices echoed one another almost in unison: “Oh oh, Fernando’s off his feed.”

Waistlines must be deceiving.

Coleman notes that Jerry Royster, one-half of third base this year, has a fine arm.

“A fine arm,” a fan muttered. “He can’t throw, but the arm is fine.”

When Marshall singled past Royster, the same fan was ready.

“The other arm is the fine one,” he said. “That one can’t pick up ground balls.”

And now we introduce Steve Boros’ speed-burning, base-blazing Padres. Carmelo Martinez is running on a 3-and-2 pitch, but cannot advance past second base. Moments later, he is thrown out at the plate trying to score on a single by Royster.

“He runs like a truck,” groaned a man with a sandwich.

“Yeah,” said another voice. “A truck with a flat tire going uphill. The third base coach has gotta know better than to send him.”

This disillusionment with the running game continued as the running game went nowhere. When pinch-runner Marvell Wynne was picked off, this mini-crowd was silent.

Poor Bip. Two strikeouts and two ground outs, one for a double play. Five outs in four at-bats.

“So much for Bip’s dream,” said the bartender.

And into the ninth, down 2-0. More Laurel and Hardy run the bases. Steve Garvey hits what should be a double to left but either trips on or misses a base he has spent 16 years playing. Regardless, he is standing on first brushing the dust from his uniform and the egg from his face. Rookie John Kruk runs for Garvey and gets thrown out stealing, going into second more like he’s trying to sneak into a hotel after curfew.

“Boros and the running game,” moaned a viewer. “He’s running his way out of innings. He ran his way out of the game.”

Everyone was fair game on this afternoon for these fans. That’s what Opening Days are like. They will play 162 games before this is over, but Opening Day has 24 hours when it stands alone in what can be an uncomfortable spotlight.

“Well,” said the bartender, “there goes the undefeated season.”