“Lemonade, lemonade—like graaaaandmaaaaa maaaaade.”

Hadn’t heard that voice since last year. I’d forgotten how lyrical was. Sure enough, it is the gap toothed, mustachioed, one legged, black guy with the high shrill voice, peddling his wares. He barely limps on his prosthesis as he carts his drinks up and down the lawn in left field.

It’s Spring Training. We are at Scottsdale Stadium. Our linguistic hero is a bona-fide original—like the world we are temporarily inhabiting. Life is good.

The Giants are playing and young phenom, Matt Cain, is pitching. For the past nine years, Saguaro cacti have given us the needle as we’ve trekked down to the desert to partake in one of America’s greatest rituals.

This is a week of wide fairways, red meat at Don and Charlie’s, sun burns, crossword puzzles between innings and never ending horizons and smiles.

“You know you waaaaaaaaaant it,” he coos, like a siren taunting Ulysses. Fortunately, we haven’t tied ourselves to a mast to resist temptation.

However, like true Giant fans, we’re into loyalty. And Dave “the Beer man” is our guy. No dough goes to anyone else. We met nine years ago. He gave us the inside dope on his job—maybe $300 per game, Brewer fans are the worst tippers—stuff like that.

Though he’s from Chicago, a few years ago he gave up the Wiggly field beer gig to live on Molokai.

“I see, sometimes, maybe two cars a day.” When he doesn’t fly South (ok, Northwest for the winter,) he hires out as a handyman and painter.

I always re-introduce myself. Entrepreneur that he is, he acts like he remembers me. Just when he knows, that I know, that he knows, that I know, he doesn’t really know me, he taps me on the shoulder from behind and asks how the weather is in the Napa Valley. The guy’s a pro—and of course, the tip gets bigger.

Unlike many other sporting events, fans are integral to Spring Training. They are the sine qua non of a sport which is like no other—well—at least a time of the year which is like no other.

At Spring Training, fans sporting pencils, paper or scorecards, openly “grade” the new talent and the aging vets. Strangers talk to strangers as they pass on opinions on the smoothness of one’s swing, the quickness of one’s hands, the power of one’s arm, or the knowledge of the game, which we (the fans) know better than the players—at least we’re convinced we do.

Spring Training was invented for Old Schoolers. It was Taylor-made for crotchety guys like me. Those weaned BBB—Before Barry Bonds.

Alas, it has been taken over by the young—not little kids—the 20 and 30 something’s. Where once elderly fans who’d maybe actually seen Ty Cobb or Honus Wagner—definitely McCovey and Mays—who grew up on Mantle, Yogi, and Ford--once ruled the turf—well, like everything else--the scene ain’t what it used to be.

As it’s Easter and Spring break (a bad combination unless you enjoy beer spilled on you) it’s taken on a tinge of a Lauderdale beach party. Tattoos are ever present, as are piercings, spaghetti strapped tee shirts, and the usual plentitude of pulchritude. The term barrel-chested men must have originated down here. Skinny dudes need not apply.

The stands are more NASCAR than AARP singles bar.

Perhaps that’s as it should be. Of course, we hit the perfect storm of a lousy weekend for true fans. Purists were forced into steerage, while those there for the party sailed first cabin.

It reminded me a bit of the Napa Valley where locals and agricultural purists have sometimes been muscled aside by those who’ve recently discovered the beauty and quality of life here—yet, still don’t quite get what it’s about.

There is room for both, but one can’t help but feel that proportionality and balance need to be reckoned with.

We show up for batting practice (code for drinking beer at 11am). The day before we hit the links (code for drinking beer at 8am).

Easter Mass and baseball combine expiation and hedonism—the perfect double header.

Alas, we remember the days of Matt Williams, Jeff Kent, Rich Aurelia and Benito Santiago when balls cleared the left field fence and JJ’s glove transmorphed into “fly” paper grasping towering drives and then tossing them to tiny kids who couldn’t begin to compete with the oldsters, stealing their joy.

Oddly, there were fewer youngsters with gloves seeking autographs this year.

(Yes, we saw an outfielder toss a ball to a middle aged woman, only to have a “barrel chested” bore jump in front of her an grab it). But I digress.

Bocock demonstrates silky hands at short and makes some fabulous plays. Yet, the bat seems slow. Eugenio Velez makes contact like an Olympic fencer, but the hands are stone.

Despite a sensational pitching staff, these are not your father’s Giants. The ball leaves the park once in six days.

But they are our Giants, so we root them on as we did when Cepeda broke in followed my Mcovey and they joined, Willie, Felipe, Davvy and the rest our Boys of October.

As one basks in the sun reading Halberstam’s classic about the Yankees and Cardinals back in ‘64 following the Free Speech Movement and JFK’s assignation, one can’t help but be grateful for Mr. Carpy, his son Chuck, Dick Creighton et al who taught us the skills which give us license to critique the prospects of today.

Spring training. Truly Lemonaaaaaade like Graaaaandmaaa made.




















Jeffrey Earl Warren
James Warren & Son
1414 Main St.
St. Helena, Ca.
94574
707-963-2748