Roy Madison | Sportswriter

Just over four months have passed since the day I decided to come to Canada. The events of my arrival are soggy, but lying awake on a morning like that one, where nothing but memory exists, things were vivid. I left Hollywood in a state of confusion. Tina, my landlady, was yelling about the scene I created for the other guests at the Gardens. Oliver was fretting over a set of sandwiches he was making so I wouldn’t go hungry on the flight. There were worried looks, followed by a train to Union Station on the Red Line, then a bus, an airport, a plane, a takeoff, a landing, the overcast skies of a foreign place, and a cab to the Sylvia hotel in Vancouver.

It was freezing, but I was soaked in sweat. I stepped towards the front desk in a white shirt stained yellow under the arms. The silk, black band of my hat was worn with white wavelength-like patterns of salt, made from a series of Hollywood heatwaves. My slacks were covered in teriyaki sauce from too many poolside rib dinners with Tina — goddamn I miss that gal, but there’s no time for that right now. Oh, and the bag on the floor beside me was bursting at the seams from Oliver’s last minute, frantic and neurotic packing; it wafted the scent of cured meats every time I shifted in my well worn leather shoes.

It’s no goddamn wonder they gave me the least desirable room in the building, an obvious and direct result of presenting myself to the Sylvia’s desk clerk 36 hours after trying to drown myself in a California swimming pool. A coffin for the dead but still alive, placed on top of the hotel’s bar. Neon spills onto the walls of the living room from the large “S” of the hotel’s namesake, just outside my window.  Notes from a rotating cavalcade of circuit lounge performers fumble their way into the kitchen, usually while I heat up a late night snack of bacon cooked two days ago. Most guests wouldn’t want a room above a bar that features the garish glow of neon and the unpredictable talents of hired entertainers, but there’s something in my desperate, uncomfortable demeanour that warrants this kind of mediocrity. Hell, friends, fans, and followers, I’ve even managed to find a certain pleasure in the things nobody else wants. I’m sure it’s a relief for the staff here to know that I’m not a deranged, slovenly animal about to take the next step towards complete insanity, and that room 222 has been filled on a monthly rate without complaint.

Sometimes the noise keeps me up, others it doesn’t. That Saturday it did. My open-eyes embraced the lack of comfort insomnia delivers to its sufferer until the sound of a fella named Kentish Steele, who was performing downstairs, was replaced by the sound of surf, and the pink fuzzy neon light, licking the walls of my bedroom, was swallowed by the more powerful rays of the day’s first sun. After that, there was nothing but emptiness and hallucinations of solitude. A welcomed unbalance to routine that I rely upon for very slight, disorienting visions throughout the day. Small derailments like these were impossible to predict, but I knew they were always a prelude to long sieges in front of a keyboard.

There were waves, and there was baseball. The Black Sox were set to play the Stevedores later that afternoon, and instead of worrying about a lack of sleep effecting my inability to properly cover life on the field, I treated the events of that night as a gift. I found myself unusually prepared for the day ahead; both spiritually and physically. My failures at trying to cover this league so far are well documented in the lack of documentation I’ve managed to produce since the season began. Despite the ambitions of my arrival, a lot of my time here so far has been spent complaining about the weather from the warmth of my hotel room, where I’m reduced to covering the Black Sox through their own updates on the East Vancouver Baseball League’s Facebook page. When I do make it to the park, my observations are maintained from the edges of the field, or worse, the passenger seat of my car. And that’s when I actually manage to make it to a game, friends, fans, and followers! It’s fine. Being a sportswriter is to live within your own thoughts, and to cover life from the edges of others. After witnessing the the sky slowly turn from a regal purple galaxy to an intense vastness of blue, and with it, the arrival of heat I’d been missing since leaving California, I knew this day would be different. The game ahead was one of the last the Black Sox would play before a break in the season. It was obvious this wasn’t just baseball. This wasn’t just a game. This was the progressions of nature, the sounds of jazz, the sizzle of late night bacon, pressed slacks, a well-worn Italian panama hat that was dying for the kind of weather that would warrant a return to my head, a waiting crowd, a rivalry between two teams, a series of ties that needed to be settled, a breaking point for all involved — this friends, fans, and followers was destiny.

The city was alive again. Cyclists, joggers, swimmers, bathers, kids in their goddamned cars with the engines revving. The city had returned itself to a new and fresh representation of hell, but today it was a different kind of same. Instead of being repulsed, I was transfixed by the sights out my window. Rather than escape the view for my usual pregame routine of fetching the morning papers from the 7-Eleven on Denman Street, along with a disgustingly weak, hot beverage they call coffee, I phoned the kitchen downstairs for breakfast. While I pressed my slacks through the heat of an iron one last time, I waited for a coffee service to arrive at my door and continued to watch the scene outside. It was still morning when I left, and it was already hot. I had to get to the park early because the territory was unfamiliar. Although the Black Sox had played a few games from Sunrise Park, a much further destination than their usual grounds in Strathcona, I had missed each one. Worried I might spend the opening innings hunting for the game, I made a smart decision and deferred my arrival to a professional driver.

Which is why I arrived without incident. The park was gorgeous. You’ve probably seen it already friends, fans, and followers, but there’s nothing like stepping into the panoramic expanse of a field that’s been etched in dirt with the shape of a diamond, so allow me this. The dugouts are well appointed with ample seating that provides players the luxury to sit and rest between at bats; the grass, lush and green, stretches far beyond the needs of sport and fills an entire city block; the fences, in their factory appointed dullness of grey and silver, are pristine and rust free, fully confident in their task to keep spectators safe. The whole park sits on a pedestal that offers itself, and everyone in it, to the north shore mountains just above center field.

It’s a shame that my work in broadcasting has been reduced to using Twitter as a means of communicating the action on the field, limiting me to short, 140 character dispatches. Such restraints will never allow for the endless interstitials Sunrise Park can provide; like the way the cloudless sky looked that afternoon, the way planes lazed overhead, or how the crowd crooned its neck to get a look down the first base line when something exciting would happen, and then returned to the sharing of a story, a beverage, or sunscreen. Moments like those friends, fans, and followers, where a broadcaster is able bring the scene on the field, and in the stands, into a higher meaning that connects the game with life’s larger pursuits — that is to say, things that help us satisfy an endless desire to distract ourselves from the fact that we are all dying as we sit there — are moments that I live for as a sportswriter and broadcaster. Instead, I am a shamed man. There was, and will likely never be, a radio station waiting for Roy Madison to take to the air again. So rather than worry about things beyond my control, I set forth in the best way I knew how, by thumbing my phone, and pounding out the action in an attempt to capture the story that was unfolding on the field.  

As much of an upgrade Sunrise Park was to its more disheveled sister park to the west, I was dismayed to see that there wasn’t an area designated for the press. Suddenly I missed the filthy couch I had been using as a means to comfortably cover the play at Strathcona Park. In previous games, it was the ideal spot, just down the third base line. From there, I was strictly bound to the role as observer, not participant — a very important distinction for any serious journalist. For chrissakes friends, fans, and followers, did you ever imagine a time when Roy Madison, sportswriter, would lament a filthy old couch used as a stand in for a park’s broadcast gondola? Well I missed that damn love seat! And if I didn’t have the sense to shove a towel into the shopping bag that held my usual seventh inning stretch sandwich before I left the hotel, I would have had to sit my damn slacks straight into the grass at Sunrise.

I’m sure nobody noticed just how ridiculous I looked, tucked behind the fence at home plate with a towel under my ass, because all eyes were on the field, and rightfully so. The Sox and Stevedores had been exchanging shots from the outset of the game, and were head-to-head going into the bottom of the second. That’s precisely when the stage was set for victory. The Sox’s Chris Cullen hit an RBI single off Kevin Wood’s delivery from the mound, which scored Rohan Karnick, who had been waiting patiently on the pads. Now that he was allowed to touch home and add a point to the scoreboard, he trotted back into to the dugout. The sun began to beat down on the field, forcing everyone in the bleachers to react in unique ways in an effort to protect themselves from the heat. For the Stevedore’s, there would be no relief. Two more Sox runners would add to the score from a single hit by Dave McEwen. Mick McDiarmid delivered the final blow, with an RBI that would put the score at 6-4. A deficit, friends, fans, and followers that the Strathcona Stevedores would never recover from.

With the lead set, Al Smith came onto the mound as pitcher for the Sox. The heat was taking its toll on the players and press now too. The beauty of a cloudless sky, which I had celebrated with such enthusiasm only hours earlier, had commingled with my inability to sleep the night before, and took on a demonic intensity that was almost palatable. Despite the wide brim of my hat, I was an easy target out there on my official broadcast towel, where the fury and heat of a late afternoon without cover funnelled in thoughts of the past. My earlier life as a beat writer for the Daily News, where I was assigned to the Mets, was near impossible to keep in check. Back then I would usually spend the innings of a game reclined in my padded, corduroy chair in the comfort of an open front, but quaintly roofed, press box. Every once in awhile I would lean forward in my chair to view the packed stadium, where the crowd was forced to sink their chances of survival into park-priced beer, with the hopes that their money would last long enough until they could return to air conditioned homes. As much as I tried to stay focused on the present, it was damn near impossible to stay out of the past.

There was no escape for Smith either, at least not until he delivered the mandatory outs required to rest the Sox defence. I could see tension manifesting itself with sweat on his brow as he struggled to throw a single strike. I couldn’t take it anymore. Roy Madison, Californian sportswriter, was melting in the rays of a pacific northwest sun. I picked up my broadcast towel, put it in my shopping bag, and headed for any sliver of shade I could find on the bleachers, something I had yet to do all season. This was new territory. This was life. Close up, crowded, loud, and loose. Beer cans were being tossed to the ground, dogs had their tongues hanging out, sundress straps came off tattooed and tanned shoulders, and babies wearing sun hats with vacant stares wondered just what in god’s name was going on. Jeers and cheers were being hurled towards Smith on the mound, still trying to find the strike zone. I found a spot on the bottom bleacher just as Smith pulled it together. That’s when the outs started coming, building up on the Stevedores, one after the other in freak acts of flies and grounders. Smith was he relieved of his duty with success.

At the top of the 5th, the ball was returned to the Sox, and given to Scott Fogden who came in to close things down for a victory. Like Smith, he had a hard time finding the strike zone, but found it somewhere out there in a place only he knows, because suddenly, the  Stevedores were sat in succession: first Chong, then Watt, and finally Cuellar — who stayed on the field to take up residence on the mound in an effort to try to keep a win within reach for the Stevedores. And by golly, friends, fans and followers, Cueller came in there and made it look easy, sitting the Sox one, two, three, in an up down inning. But the bats couldn’t return the call. The Stevedore’s had to get back up against Fogden. Despite being forced back to the mound after little rest while the Sox bats tried to add some runs to their lead, his three inning closing session was near flawless during his tenure in the heat at Sunrise Park.

At the top of the inning, just before the well known song was performed in the way Chicago fans are accustomed to — with a celebrity filling in for another broadcasting great, Harry Carey, leading the crowd through the verses from the press box — a short montage showed moments from Craig’s long career: his flamboyant outfits; scenes of him interviewing legends past and present; the moment he stood on the grass at the Friendly Confines with his family beside him as he shook hands with Billy Williams, the player that had inspired him since being a youngster. It’s moments like these that make a man pause and reflect at what was friends, fans, and followers.

I make no bones about the choices I made throughout my career. Decisions that seem to have accumulated in the form of a 233 sq. ft. hotel room on the west coast of Canada I currently call home. I prepare my food in a microwave that sits on the counter of my kitchenette, my clothes are that of another era, I’m surrounded by discarded newspapers even though they seem harder to find every day, and the memories of a time I was called a family man seem to have faded so far into the past, I can no longer conjure them.

“Es muy larga, Roy!” She yelled, holding a long list of charges in front my 5 O’Clock shadow that was glistening from a late afternoon blast of heat. I can still hear her playfully barking between drags of her cigarette once I smoothed things over with some poolside Dubonnet. “es muy larga,” now she was saying it with a giggle instead of a growl. If that gal wasn’t saddled with her duties at the Gardens, I would have scooped her right up then and there and brought her back up to Canada with me.

The life of a sportswriter is a lonely one though friends, fans, and followers. After things had quieted down some at the Gardens, and my assignment in Hollywood was complete. I was alone again, and in Vancouver. Standing in the solitude of my living room at the Sylvia Hotel, ironing my slacks in my underwear and looking at the dark, moody clouds that were taking shape over the waters of English Bay, my thoughts quickly returned to poolside sunsets, Dubonnet, and pre-cooked BBQ ribs, picked out of the Fresh N’ Easy at North Sycamore and Hollywood Boulevard. “Es muy larga, my darling,” I whispered to the open window while the iron in my hand spit out a plume of steam. The East Van Baseball League Season was going to open at 6:00pm that evening, and all I could think about was what could have been.

That’s right, friends, fans, and followers, the season hadn’t even started, and already it was apparent that my attempts at covering this new league were off to dismal beginnings. Standing there in white Jockey briefs, I realized if this was going to go anywhere, I needed to forget Hollywood, the Gardens, Oliver, and especially Tina. I had to get my head out of the sunshine, and into the atmosphere of uncertainty that lay ahead in Canada. In just a few hours everything on those goddamn east Vancouver fields would start to be officially recorded! Heroes would be created! History would be made! I needed a drastic act to snap into it, and before I even realized what I was doing, my mind decided on one. “Es muy larga!!!” I screamed in pain as the hot iron met my bare forearm in an attempt to expel the demons of comfort and love. Then, I put my shirt on and went to the park.

Friday April 15–6:00pm: Black Sox vs Isotopes

I didn’t even get out of my car. it was so goddamn cold, friends, fans, and followers. I just sat there with the gear in park and the motor running. WIth a clear view of the diamond, I got out my pencil and paper with a sigh as I prepared to score the game. Then, something wonderful and unexpected happened. Just before the Isotopes were getting set to challenge the East Van Black Sox, one of the gals on the Mount Pleasant Murder — scheduled to play the next day against the Railtown Spikers — opened the East Van Baseball League’s season with a rousing rendition of Canada’s national anthem. Something in those words and in that voice reminded me what I was there to do, friends, fans, and followers, and I got to it! By the time I was finished scoring the game, I had a final of 13 to 11 for the Black Sox. One of the fellas for the Sox by the roster name of Peter Plett, hit a homerun. Bygolly friends, fans, and followers, in the sweet words of Tina back at the gardens: it was very long.

Saturday April 16–12:00pm: Murder vs. Spikers

Day two: Opening Weekend. I thought the bloody sun might pull through for the two games scheduled for that Saturday afternoon at Strathcona Park, but I forgot about the weather pretty damn quick once I was treated to just about the worst goddamned thing a sportswriter could suffer: getting scooped! And not even two games into the season. I know I haven’t made myself known to these kids yet, and that baseball is a complex game that requires many hands to record the complexities of life it plays venue to, but that doesn’t discount the plan I hatched to be the one that would introduce the East Van Baseball League to the world, and the fact that I had planned on doing it all in good time; you can’t rush this stuff!

You think that once these kids figure out there’s a bonafide professional from California watching their every move, translating their slides, steals, and singles into poetry that could melt oil-based paint off the back of a slaughterhouse, they’re not going to get stiff hands? It doesn’t mean a bloody thing now anyway. Before I could get my pencil out to start scoring the game, some local author stepped onto the diamond of Strathcona Park for a ceremonial first pitch and then wrote about it in one of the papers here in Vancouver. Roy Madison, officially scooped. I suppose this author fella threw the ball down the plate alright, which only made the fury of jealousy burn hotter. Sometimes it’s just not your day, or your life. The score was 11 to 5 for the Murder, but I’ll be honest, once I realized the story of the East Van Baseball League had slipped through my hands, I took refuge in the Strathcona Park Sauna Bus for some much needed R&R. Yes, you heard that right friends, fans, and followers — a sauna bus; finally I was warm.

Saturday April 16–3:00pm: Stevedores vs. Black Sox

It’s amazing what a little heat and Canadian beer can do to warm the soul. The previous night’s winners, the East Van Black Sox, took to the field for a match against the Strathcona Stevedores, and I was roused from the Strathcona Park Spa Bus with a sense of purpose after sweating out the self revulsion produced by the ceremony of the previous match. I settled into the Official Roy Madison Broadcasting Gondola to watch the action unfold through my field glasses and began scoring the game. I tell you friends, fans, and followers, covering the action at Strathcona Park can be a challenge when there’s no replay to revisit the past, no outfield board to reacquaint yourself with the score, or count indicator to figure out where a player sits in the count. Even the slightest distraction: a mustard spill on your slacks, a quick nip from a paper-bagged beverage, or a sultry look from a sweet looking dame in the stands will have you lost in the plot unfolding on the field in the fraction of a second.

I’ll be the first to say it, sportswriters are among the worst of people.

I know it’s all a bit heavy handed, but goddamnit fans, being a sportswriter is a tough racket! You try spending a lifetime nosing around for the faintest hint of weakness, thirsty for the grit of survival, hungry to document failure, desperate to uncover the tawdry behavior that lays dormant within us all until it’s unleashed by the money and fame of a game played at the professional level — or maybe it’s not, some of us are the devil incarnate right from the start — it matters little, we are a species always able to find an excuse to partake in evil. Spinning these kinds of tales for the dailies, where they’re consumed over a bbq, bed, table, or martini has led the cheapo-drama artists of my profession to a certain degree of madness untold. I’ll be the first to say it, sportswriters are among the worst of people, damned to a life peddling lies and false tragedies all in an effort to get words in the minds of others quicker and longer than the other guy.

Which is why I’m here. Since reporting on the East Vancouver Baseball League’s very first practice of 2016, I have felt a palatable promise in the winds of change that are currently billowing the sails of a refreshed Roy Madison. We are headed towards a summer of rejuvenation friends, fans, and followers! There’s something in the way this has all come together that just feels so bloody right. But what about the game? It’s why we’re all here isn’t it? I got word of not one, but two such events brewing this past Saturday, March 19th. A double header between two of the league’s teams: the Isotopes and Black Sox, followed by a matching of the Mt. Pleasant Murder and Strathcona Stevedores — hah! Murder! I doubt that would fly in the big leagues, fans. It was going to take place at Strathcona Park, the official field of the EVBL, and Roy Madison, Sportswriter was going to cover it.

This is how the game breathes, getting its air from references to past histories with the tossing of a ball in the present.

Much like the games it’s devoted to, sportswriting is mired in routine. That Saturday morning, I went through mine: wake up, take coffee, then get up to gather every possible paper I can get my hands on. Back in California, I would sometimes walk from the hotel, down North Sycamore to Hollywood Boulevard in my robe, pajamas and slippers to get my papers, but not up here fans! It’s too damn cold. Then, and without delay, I return to bed with the day’s news strewn about my room so I can pour over the box scores and editorial bits, gathering the intelligence I need to bring numbers to life. Questions are answered: like just what the hell is a Stevedor? Well, friends, fans and followers, it’s a fella, or I guess a gal nowadays too, that unloads cargo from a ship. Dockworkers! This league has a real blue-collar element embedded into it that’s rooted in the spirit of neighborhoods, trades, and cultures that have helped to shape Vancouver. This is how the game breathes, getting its air from references to past histories with the tossing of a ball in the present. It’s the details like these that I try to find from the bed of my hotel room before any writing is to start. They act as magnets for what else will occur that day. Instead of pounding out the ruts, the streaks, the injuries, and the heaves and sways of a game as it makes its way to a final score, I fill a blank page by trying to catch myself off guard with the way the air smells or how the wind lifts and trickles its way from English Bay to my open window at the Sylvia Hotel. Then, once I have a few things down, I get cleaned up, order a sandwich wrapped in wax paper from the kitchen downstairs, apply my uniform of slacks and blazer with a hat that acts as both reprieve from the elements and notification to others that I’m press, and make my way to the park. This is how good sportswriting gets done.

I told her I had no time for casual talk! Then delegated her eyes to the press card in my hat.

Things were looking grim for the Black Sox, who were already in a rut they never got out of by the time I arrived by cab at Strathcona Park. I took up a spot just beside the well-weathered wood bleachers, got out my notepad, and got to work. The last innings only confirmed the inevitable: a final score of 15 to 5 for the Isotopes. At least I think that’s what the score was, fans. Most sportswriters would balk at the thought of covering a game without a press box staff delivering all the minutiae required for a writer to cover their beat, but not Roy Madison! I’ve yet to get acquainted with all the players, but that didn’t stop me from keeping track of the rotation and score with a zest for the way things should be done. At one point a dame came up and wanted to know where I got my socks, and I told her I had no time for casual talk! Then delegated her eyes to the press card in my hat and told her to come by the Sylvia Hotel for a drink where we could get into, or out of, the subject of socks all we want. Such is the nature of the business, there are many distractions, but you have to stick to the story that’s unfolding, not the one that’s been told a thousand times.

Things took an ominous tone as the day headed into its later hours and the Murder took to the field. These kids look tough friends, fans, and followers. Real roughnecks: cut off sleeves, mullets, and straggly beards. I was tempted to have a sartorial word or two with these guys and girls about the honors involved with getting in front of an audience, but thought better of it. Besides, that’s what makes this whole experience so unique. Not a damn chance these players would be put under the lights of a major league venue, but at Strathcona Park major doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. As for the Stevedores, they look bloody young. Hell I had to ask myself if these kids had even started shaving yet! It was really something to see, because this team came onto the diamond full of moxy, and went hard against the Murder. Hell, I put them at something like 9 runs over the Murder’s 5; a real inspiration!

But then it came time for a piss, friends, fans and followers.

Now, a word or two about Strathcona Park, friends, fans and followers. I love it. There are no amenities, shelters, ground crews, cheerleaders, or seats for sale, and as I’ve mentioned on numerous occasions, no press box. Although rain constantly threatened both games, passers by out walking their dog or strolling aimlessly about the neighborhood would find themselves curious about the small crowd gathered around the caged diamond, only to be hooked by the action on the field. Chinese women collecting cans worked the crowds, picking up anything worth something at the depots. I’m telling you, these ladies are in the wrong racket. Instead of picking up the trash they ought to offer up some hot dogs. Jesus, one of them had a NASCAR hat on, and I thought she would have made a good outfield for the Murder while she was at her can game. But then it came time for a piss, friends, fans and followers. It was my first visit to the park john, and I was pretty surprised to see a couple guys smoking a crack pipe in there. I said for chrissakes, fellas, there’s a goddamn ball game going on, and I kicked their asses out of there, not because they were smoking crack, but because there was a damn fine ball game going on out there. I don’t have much to say about some of the things I’ve seen during my short time here in Vancouver so far, because some parts of life just don’t give in to a sportswriter’s point of view.

Usually this time of year fills me with excitement and anticipation, but after years of seeing the same stories, and writing the same words about players coming up, going down, finding fame, losing grace, and not to mention the same old cronies in the press box pushing pencils and whatever else they can push around, I realized that I’ve been caring less and less about baseball. Which frightens me, fans. It fills me with a certain kind of palatable fear. Without baseball there is no way to view the constant flux of society through the controlled lens of a game, with crowds assembled around it, regularly played in the same fashion that it’s been played since the beginning of time; well, at least the beginning of my time.

I like repetition. The only damn way to tell if anything is right in this world is to measure whether or not it happens over and over again, and in the same way it did before, but during the winter months, something in the comfort of same felt a little off. Here in Hollywood, the weather is reliably predictable and unwavering. This is a good thing. My days by the pool here at the Highland Gardens hotel — where I’ve been residing since I was run out of New York some years ago for my slovenly behavior in the press box, on the busses, and beside the field — was something to behold because I felt like nobody else had the guts to live a life dedicated to something that left them behind, that didn’t want them anymore.

My days start early. I wake up, assess the sky, look at the box scores if a season is in play, watch a little I Love Lucy if there isn’t, then get out for a swim, some sun, and a six pack with the radio transmitting anything I needed to know about from Dodger Stadium. As evening approached, I would put a shirt over my still wet shorts, walk down the Boulevard to Musso’s for dinner (usually only on Thursday’s, I’m not made of dough you know) and try to get a few rounds of cards in if I could rouse up some of the regular fellas that are known to skulk about. Finally, and only after the sun set behind the hills, I’d file a story. Year upon year, season after season, this was how I lived my life, and I wouldn’t change it for a bit. Published or not, I was goddamned sportswriter! And there wasn’t a thing anybody could say about it.

Then something strange happened. Just last week, I was sitting by the pool when I got up without a thought of warning, and dropped myself into the deep end where I let myself float to the bottom of the pool, just to sit there. Jesus, I think I might have been trying to drown myself! Yes, friends, fans and followers, I was clearly trying to drown myself, but don’t worry, I finally surfaced, gasping for air and wanting a change. I realized that another season covering the Dodgers down here in Los Angeles wasn’t going to provide me with the usual feeling of purpose that it had in the past. How long would it be before I wound up blowing bubbles to the bottom of the pool again? I was drowning in the repetition of the game, and would soon be drowning where the game of life is concerned, fans.

We get all types here at the Gardens, making the pool scene quite a thing, which is why I usually do all my work there. The place is a bit of a dump, but it’s cheap and it’s just behind Hollywood Boulevard. It’s a less of a hotel and more of a flop house where actors who come here from all over in the spring take up residence to see if they can get picked up for a show in the hopes of extending their dream a little longer. Come to think of it, it’s not unlike spring training. A lot of them are from Canada, and I got to talking to one kid, Romey, a young Venezuelan fella from Vancouver, British Columbia that would usually take the lounger beside me with the shortest goddamn shorts on with an unbuttoned blue denim shirt. Christ, this kid was a real playboy, what I wouldn’t give to swap his body with my wrinkled ball bag for an afternoon. Anyway, he didn’t have much to say. He’d just sit there in his Ray Bans on the lounger beside mine, smoking Marlboros, waiting for his phone to ring in an audition. Finally, out of nowhere, we got to talking one day about baseball of all things, and he told me about a new league up in Vancouver that was formed from a bunch of kids who played music at night, and baseball during the day. Other fellas, and girls too for chrissakes, caught the bug and started playing, forming their own teams, designing uniforms, the whole shebang. Now there’s something like 4 teams. Romey says that not a dollar changes hands, and that playing in an East Van park is like that scene in Rocky when he punches the meat for practice — ok, those are my words, not his — but Romey said there’s no place to sit, nevermind concessions or a press box. Just the field. Just the game.

I told Romey that was just about the most delightful thing I ever heard, and when I went to bed later that night, it was just about all I could think about. By morning, I had an idea! Roy Madison: on assignment! It was all set. I was going to go up to Canada to report on the early days of the East Van Baseball League. Now don’t think for one second, when this whole plan together, that I didn’t think of this as being a way to relive my time travelling with the Mets. Those days were plum! The hotels, the girls, the late night steak dinners, it wouldn’t be a different city every day, but it would still be different every day. This was a fresh league, with no other crumbs holding pencils in hand, hanging around, shooting bull, trying to scoop a story before the other guy got it. Just me. In a new city! A new start! A new everything! A new me.