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World Series or Bust!
Life comes at you fast. And sometimes everything is fine and dandy, and sometimes everything is most certainly not fine and dandy and is actually very coarse and ugly.
For a host of reasons, the month of September has been a toughie. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say that it has been the hardest of months since we made our big move from Alaska to Arizona; which means it's been the toughest since some of you have started receiving Desert Dispatch in your inbox — and thanks for subscribing, of course.1
The next few dispatches are going to be something different. Very different. But, I think, very cool and maybe even special.
My dear friend Debbie, who had no idea I was in such a funk because I've been one of those very stupid self-isolationist types for as long as I can recall, asked me the strangest question on Thursday, September 26 at exactly 3:19AM — yes, she’s a night owl.
In short, the question was: I've cancelled my flight to New York City to drive down to San Diego to watch the Padres in the playoffs. Would you come with me?
For those who don't know, here are my baseball bona fides: I've been a baseball fan for most of my life (with a long gap during early adulthood) and a San Diego Padres fan, now, for years. All of the males in my family have played baseball at some level, even just little league, and my grandfather worked the elevators at Camden Yards. Some of the earliest memories both my dad and uncle have are seeing games with their dad; for me, I remember my dad pulling me out of school to watch Cal Ripken Jr. break Lou Gehrig’s consecutive games streak on September 6, 1995. Baseball, at least watching it and obsessing over it, is a family affair.
My friend Debbie has been a Padres fan since the beginning. She's got her own stories to tell that I hope I can convince her to share here. Debbie, for her part, is coming down from Oregon to pick up this schmuck in Tucson and, as I write this, she's currently just outside Reno, NV having a nap in her Prius — the good ship, I will add, is called Endora.2 You should expect Debbie (and her Prius) to co-star extensively in this thing, too.
So, to get straight to the point, I'll say that on Tuesday (this morning, technically) Debbie and I will take I-8 to San Diego for the first Wild Card game between the San Diego Padres and Atlanta Braves. We'll be running on about as much gas as the Braves are after their doubleheader in Atlanta…which is great for the Padres, I'll add.
What I'm going to do with this newsletter for as long as this thing goes on (may it end in fireworks and beer somewhere in the Gaslamp in late October) is to try and capture the adventure and fun of it all here in my newsletter.3 I suspect some shenanigans, as well…because it is, and always will be, World Series or bust.
I don't want to oversell this: I have no idea how long we'll be on the road, or if we’ll be able to get tickets to games, or where we'll be staying. We'll both be working remote because we've got a problem and the only cure is postseason baseball. This is not a textbook operation, there's no manual. It's highly unorthodox. But, that uncertainty and madness makes this special — you don't know what's going to happen, dear reader, and neither do I.
Baseball is life, and the rest is just details.
As an aside: Most people I know didn't know about my mental health malady until I was coming out of it. So, if you didn't know, well, no one else did either. Please forgive your humble dispatcher, he'll be better in the future.
The article above was written in two sittings. Most of it, like this section, was written Sunday (9/29) night. The rest on the following day.
I wrote a similar sports-related field dispatch series way back in 2010. That was for a group of college bicyclists competing in Alaska’s Fireweed 200 (shout-out to Brenna and Jon of Tyrannosaurus Wrecks); so, I guess I'm going to do the same thing here except with baseball and for the few who know what I'm talking about this footnote is for you!
Love it!