Aussie Baseball 2.0

At this point I think Beyonce would be jealous of my upgrade.  For my first few weeks, as some may have noticed, I haven’t spoken about baseball.  I was disappointed with my experience.  I felt I had flown across the largest body of water known to humanity for nothing more than monopoly money and funny accents.  Since my move to the Sturt baseball club I have not only been introduced to a new club, and gotten; a new home, new phone, new car, new city, new hair cut (ok that was prior to the change in club), but I have a new perspective. 

I’m drooling at the opportunity in front of me.  I’m surrounded by guys with baseball pedigree. My new roommate is a former professional basketball player who spent time in Seville and Barcelona in the European pro circuit. My new coach was in the big leagues for 8 weeks as a coach and spent time in the minors as a first basemen.  I’m developing a friendship with a guy who was described to me as “the most dominant pitcher in Australia”.  Now let’s step to the second degree of separation.  My aforementioned friends are close friends with Grant Balfour and Ryan Rowland-Smith two names that most definitely register with me.  They both pitch in the American League one is a dominant and volatile reliever for the Tampa Bay Rays the other a starter for the Seattle Mariners (yes they still play in the MLB American League).  One of my potential future roommates is Todd Gossage.  His dad is Hall of Famer Goose Gossage. I’ve held back the urge to tell him that my Dad has his Dad’s autograph; just in case we ever got into a ‘my dad could beat up your dad’ argument.  Our manager Pat Kelly is the proud owner of a World Series ring and I think they give everyone Olympic medals here because I’ve lost count how many guys I’ve met that own one. 

My new car is a 95 Ford Laser. Kind of a junker but gets the job done. I hate my new phone. But I love my new place. I’m living just a few hundred feet from the beach. On an apartment built on a series of pubs.  I can see bumper cars and a ferris wheel from our balcony and my roommate, Martin, isn’t expecting rent.  Today at my training for the State League team (a team I don’t expect to make at this point) I faced a guy throwing 90 and was pretty overmatched but it feels good to feel challenged.  When I left San Francisco, and all I was leaving when I left the states, this is what I expected on the other side of the Pacific. Maybe it will settle in; maybe it isn’t as great as it seems right now—but I doubt it. 

LeBron, I feel your pain

This June, video clips in every major news channel showed angry crowds feverishly protesting, up in arms and nearly rioting they engulfed the symbol of their loathe in flame.  The demonstration I'm speaking of wasn't any flag or holy text.  I'm talking about LeBron James jerseys. 

Anyone who follow sports heard, or saw firsthand, the LeBron James saga.  Every team with backloaded cash was vying for the chance to bring the King to rule their city. In a grab for the fading media spotlight (we only have twenty-four hours in a day and we still didn't know if Brett Favre would play this season) James, in a live televised press conference, announced "I will be taking my talents to South Beach." This move meant he would join forces with Dwayne Wade and newly acquired Chris Bosh.  Blah Blah everyone knows that story.  James was met with immediate and aggressive criticism. I didn't feel bad for James, not at the time.  I was very indifferent, to LeBron leaving his franchise and hometown for a chance to win because, well frankly they never brought in a suitable sidekick.  Yes, a whole city probably hates him and people that were once a "Witness" probably hope to witness  his private jet go the way of Buddy Holly.  Who cares, right?

Well now I do.  After arriving in Australia to play for the Rangers I was quite excited.  Four days and one practice later I was miserable.  The Rangers, as I was informed, were a Division 3 club with hopes of climbing to Division 1 by next season.  Enter my incorrect assumption.  My brother plays Division 3 football, the athletes are youthful, competitive, experienced and although they may not have the jaw dropping athleticism of the DI athlete they are phenomenal athletes and the facilities are accommodating if not excellent.  My first training was painful.  I felt as though I had not left America but I had arrived from Krypton and the Australian sun had made me a superhero.  I was on a different level.  My skills, athleticism but especially my understanding of the game surpassed the entire organization.  My teammates were either; new to baseball, old and broken down or lacking any knowledge of the sport.  I immediately and privately voiced my discontent to the club manager and president (we'll call him Bob for the sake of saving characters) and asked that the team consider finding me a home with a new Div 1 team. Normally I would have shelved my pride and enjoyed the opportunity for what it was.  However, Bob had agreed prior to my departure that if I was not happy I could be moved elsewhere.  After several weeks of the Rangers organization trying to convince me to stay with them I am now on the way out.  And I extent my sympathy to LeBron; homeboy I do not envy you.

Now I feel like an entire community wants to drive a stake through my heart. Admittedly most of the disdain is simply a product of my overactive imagination.  I have been the feature story in every baseball related news publication for two weeks prior to the news of my trade. I've been coaching two teams the 14U team and have taken ownership of my own senior club's practices.  Everyone wanted to meet me, chat with me and befriend me and why not I am a fairly likable guy.  Now I expect to see an angry mob carrying torches made from newspaper articles marching down my street.  The head coach asked that I do not attend training although I have yet to be traded and they have asserted "we value your knowledge as a coach even more so than your talent as a player". Then there is Bob.  The man once leading the charade of indulgences dinners and perks is now well less than pleased he could not persuade me to stay.  Bob decided to take a very public shot at me in the club newsletter and has repeatedly chose comment on my lack of loyalty and his disappointment in my failure to fulfill my obligation with the team. 

Well Lebron, I feel you. Let's start a weekly therapy group for people who left for greener pastures on the south beach. I'll eat up every word you have to say because, well hey-- at least Gawler isn't Cleveland and at least I didn't diss my team on national television. 

Culture Chemistry: Dilution and Osmosis

You never know what kind of conversation you will have while taking a casual BP session.  Back home a certain friend and infielder insisted you must think and talk about sex while hitting- as a means of clearing your mind.  Some people prefer to talk about the bar either the night prior or upcoming; others prefer not to talk at all.  I attempt to dabble in conversations depending on who I am hitting with. 

Osmosis:
While taking BP with my friend Mark we stumbled on the topic of 9/11.  I wasn't sure of the global depth of the attacks. I soon learned that even in Australia, halfway around the world, they underwent the same media dissection of the attack. He mentioned they covered the story on every channel for more than a week,as we did in the States.  He even went as far as to tastefully but not without bitterness of cliche assert "Some things you will always remember where you were when you heard... I remember where I was when Princess Di was killed and I remember the Trade Center attacks" I was slightly shocked, because I expected it to shape some of my world perspective but I had no idea I would reach the world in a similar fashion. 

Dilution:
After a Sunday afternoon weight room workout Mark and I (I was staying at his house for a few days this is not some sort of ongoing romance) I mention how I felt it was ironic that the gym I had been affiliated with before my trip to Australia was in fact Oz Fitness.  He was curious what exactly that meant and I explained how their marketing is based around the stereotype that Australians are fit athletic and overwhelmingly attractive.  He laughed and brought up one of the most interesting facts (I have not bothered to actually verify its validity).  Australia is the worlds second fattest nation and is closing the gap on the United States. 
As taken aback as I was by the destruction of that paradigm a new thought had entered my mind.  The move to Australia hadn't been all that much of a culture difference.  Drive down the road (on the left side of course) and you see McDonald's, KFC, Subway, and even the Burger King's twin brother Hungry Jack's; they had Gatorade, Powerade, Vitamin Water, but then again I'd be more surprised if I didn't see Coke and Pepsi products.
This epiphany led me to another one.  I wasn't overwhelmed by the differences in dialect.  Sure they had a strong accent, but so do citizens of Chicago and Minnesota.  I was expecting on arrival to hear words that I didn't understand in every sentence and for the culture to be more difficult to track.  Perhaps a certain Dr Braa would be proud that I even took time to realize the influence of Americanism through business and entertainment (most mainstream American TV is featured in Australia) on the Australian culture. 

Or maybe he'd wonder why I'm spending so much time thinking about culture and not about why I am getting jammed on pitches to the inner half of the plate.  Guess I better start thinking more about sex. Thanks ER, you're a genius

Aussie Rules

One of the first cultural differences I've been presented with was the version of football played in Australia.  Aussie rules football is a combination of soccer, and ultimate frisbee rules with scoring very similar to PAT's in American football or gridiron as its is classified here. 

The ball, or footy, is a red version of a rugby ball.  Points are scored by kicking the footy through two sets of posts six points for goals through the inside set and one for 'behind' the outside posts.  The remaining rules are to complicated to explain but let me assure you its entertaining to say the least. 

Atmosphere at the ASNFL Grand Final was electric. The Central District Bulldogs faced off against the Norwood Redlegs.  The Bulldogs or Doggies, as I was instructed they be called, had suffered a long drought to start their history dating back more than fifty years.  However their recent history includes 8 premierships in the last decade; a resume that would earn an American organization the fitting title of "dynasty".

The match was incredible. The wind played a huge factor as it was blowing directly from the east to west goal.  Centrals went up by twenty; only to fall behind by 30 by half.  With the wind in favor of Central they managed to scratch ahead by fifteen and hold onto the win.  My host, Robert Laidlaw, who was an avid Bulldogs fan and member of the media was ecstatic and managed to grant us access to the club's victory party. 

The whole experience left me thinking about culture and how narrow societal views can be.  In America we are brought up on the NFL or gridiron rules of football.  Australians are brought up on their own rules.  Now it would be ridiculous to consider the way I learned growing up the better way or the right way.  It is more comfortable for me to watch the Seahawks play the Rams in an NFL game-but a better game?  Essentially this is my conclusion on religion and culture.  Too many people fail to step outside their own comfortable paradigms to consider perhaps they are missing the purpose of culture.  On the field, the rules are all that important but are simply a means for participants to pursue a defined goal a means to compete.  The essence of sport is to compete-to struggle.  Is this so different from secular or religious norms? The laws, scriptures, constructs, and beliefs we are taught may differ from other systems. But aren't these rules in place to organize our struggle to give life purpose? I vote yes

First Training aka Letdown

To start my club the Gawler Ranger's were not what I expected.  I didn't expect the intensity to match the tenacity of Jeremiah Robbin's baseball machine at Western Oregon but surely they would have some sense of the game.  I should have consulted Anon before making this assumption because I truly felt like an ass when I went through my first practice (or 'training' as my Aussie counterparts prefer to call it).  The coach dressed in Levi's and an old Cardinals jacket. The players wardrobe consisted of mostly shorts and soccer cleats; caps were apparently optional and the starting shortstop wore a gray wifebeater and a Monster energy drink cap.  I went about my business as usual, hustling, working to get behind fly balls in the outfield all the while trying to  attempting to keep my cool and not swear at teammates after every botched routine play.  I had two at bats, saw two pitches both I hit squarely to the right side. One was misplayed in the outfield and went for a triple and the other was a clean single.  I followed that with throwing to six hitters off the mound-nothing was hit out of the infield. 

Week One

After spending my first week in Gawler( yes pronounced the same as my freshmen dorm at Gonzaga) I've already had so many small adventures that I'm unsure if I can properly articulate each one suitably. 

I met my team (disappointed to say the least); partook in a Adelaide pub crawl with a few of the fellas, blokes, guys, ya whatever from the team; ran my first practice; watched the Grand Final for two different Footy leagues; arranged a tryout with the national club; attended a horse race; and drove my Aussie car.  I only hope that these adventures continue.

To the Land of Oz

To a bit of my own surprise I did make it to the airport and to an even greater surprise I was early.  Not surprisingly however my mother lost her composure while I was still dealing with the woman at the ticket counter.  After saying a quick goodbye to Tristan, my youngest brother I was given the option to let my mom have a pass to see me off to the gate. A decision, given hindsight, I may have considered thinking twice on.

My mom has always begins to sniffle and tear before I leave for any period of time; for this I have developed some level of tolerance. What I failed to anticipate was that my mom would leave a 15oz hand lotion container and large pocketknife in her purse.  When TSA questioned her she, met with the possibility of not being able to see me off to the gate as well as the embarrassment of the moment, began weeping uncontrollably inside security. I did my best assure her she would be able to take her things back to the car and still see me off.
Despite leaving me standing with a woman's purse in public and the awkward stare of everyone flying that day I managed to stay in good spirits. After what was probably a 7 dollar scone and a thirty minute wait I boarded my plane waving to my teary eyed mother.  This marked the beginning of my adventure.