To print this page, select "Print" from the File menu of your browser salon.com > People April 3, 2000 URL: http://www.salon.com/people/feature/2000/04/03/triplea If you fold it, they will come Minor league baseball is bittersweet. The players are praying for a ticket out, and it's even worse when the team is looking to move, too. - - - - - - - - - - - - By Steve Burgess As is the case most years, they held a World Series last October. And as is so often the case, the New York Yankees won it. There followed the usual parade and emotional speeches, the players relishing that sweet period between the final out of the season and Daryl Strawberry's next drug suspension. A happy ritual, playing out as it should. A month earlier, there had been another World Series -- the Triple-A version. The minor league championship differed from its more famous parent in a number of ways. It was held in a neutral site -- in fact, probably the most neutral site in America, Las Vegas, where fan loyalties await the publishing of the morning line. The underdog Vancouver Canadians took the series, defeating the Oklahoma Redhawks. Although the team celebrated in traditional jumping-jack fashion, they did so in front of nearly empty stands. But the real difference between Triple-A and the Show became evident the next day -- unlike the victorious Yanks, the Canadians did not return home in triumph. They didn't return to Vancouver at all, nor have they since. This spring the defending Triple-A champs are congregating in Sacramento, Calif., as the newly renamed River Cats. For the now-defunct Vancouver Canadians, victory was truly final. Named for a Vancouver fast-food king, the city's Nat Bailey Stadium is an old-fashioned gem, generally loved by the fans. Tommy Lasorda called it one of the prettiest ballparks in the world (despite the odd fact that the spectators with the best view are the three outfielders; the gorgeous Coast Mountains are on the wrong side of the stands). But a couple of seasons back, the conventional wisdom suddenly changed -- or so the park's owners would have us believe -- and the old gem wasn't quite so lovable. The Canadians home park was revealed to be a hopeless relic: crummy player facilities, no luxury box revenue, seating for only 5,000. "Not financially viable," the owners said, and the death watch was on. Before the 1999 season, a deal was struck -- the Canadians would play one more year in Vancouver, then head south to the California capital. Early September 1999: It's the night of the last regular season game. From his seat behind home plate, longtime Canadians fan Bob Hilditch looks around at a packed Nat Bailey. "Everybody loves a winner," he says. Sure, and everybody slows down at a car wreck. It's a toss-up which principle is at work here. True enough, the team ran away with its division and will shortly begin its successful playoff run, but it's also the beginning of the end for a longtime Vancouver institution. Whether it's the smell of a winner or the smell of death, something is bringing a throng through the doors of the Nat. Maybe they're looking for bargains -- liquidation prices on nacho cheese sauce and giant vats of mustard. Tinny speakers play the Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony." It fits. "California Dreamin'" would work, too; the Canadians are the farm team of the Oakland A's. With the possible exception of the security guards there's not a uniformed employee in the park who isn't hoping to reach the Golden State long before the Canadians do. That's the aspect of minor league ball that can make it a tough sell. Even when the franchise isn't getting ready to blow town, the players are. Sports fans long for the elusive magic that descends on a team when it jells into a championship contender. But minor league teams exist mainly to be cannibalized by their major league affiliates, and players who do win pennants are usually praying their reward will be a ticket out. Kind of spoils the mood. Still, minor league baseball has plenty of compensatory advantages. Small parks, reasonable ticket prices, no prima donnas -- pro sports as it ought to be, on a human scale. Even the Nat Bailey scoreboard is manually operated. In section 3, a kid attending his first ballgame peppers his uncle with questions. "Why isn't that one good?" he demands as a ball sails out of sight toward the parking lot. "Because it was a foul ball," Uncle explains. "See, it was outside of the white line. Those ones don't count." Two innings later, the kid is a veritable umpire. "That's a foul ball!" he shouts. "Three balls and two strikes on the scoreboard!" Behavioral scientists believe children's brains are hard-wired to pick up language skills. Watch a kid at his first game and you quickly develop the impression there's also some baseball circuitry in there. (Back in the stands, another tyke sees a vendor walk past and yells, "Gimme a beer!" They've probably got circuitry for that, too.) "Hey, this has been a slow game," says one spectator. "Well," his friend replies, "they're beating the crap out of us. It takes a while." It's true. In this meaningless season-ender, the Memphis Redbirds are checking Canadian fans into the Heartbreak Hotel with an old-fashioned whuppin'. Never mind -- the playoffs lie ahead and in the meantime there are other spectacles to enjoy. Between innings, another minor league staple: goofy competitions for the fans. In the ever-popular spin race, two kids, usually a boy and a girl, spin around until they're thoroughly dizzy, then run for the finish line. Tonight's boy contestant makes a crucial error -- his competitive instincts take over immediately, in the spinning phase. He spins with vigor and enthusiasm. His more prudent female rival spins much more modestly. The signal is given, she makes a beeline down the track, he lurches two drunken steps and careens into the turf. Kids learn many important life lessons at the ballpark. Hilditch has been around long enough to recall the glory days. "Back in the late '50s on opening day they had the outfield roped off and people were standing 20 deep. Plus there were bleachers along the baselines, and they were full too." Tonight the glory days are back, if only to bid a final farewell. After the game the Canadians stage a truly corny spectacle -- in a "Field of Dreams" sendoff they construct a little cornfield behind second base, play a recording of James Earl Jones reciting hometown boy W.P. Kinsella's stirring words about the meaning of baseball, and have the team emerge from the corn in a fog of dry ice. "If you build it, they will come," whispers a voice on the PA. Close. Tonight, it's "If you fold it, they will come." Nat Bailey will not stay dark this year. A Single-A franchise (stolen from another, even less fortunate Oregon ballpark) will play a shorter season, stocked with players whose shot at the bigs is that much longer. Meanwhile, California's River City has a new team -- and not just any squad, but the Triple-A champions. Once again, as they have in the past, Sacramento fans will have the lovely, languid opportunity to while away hot summer evenings at the park. And the players will continue to keep one eye on the ball and the other on a brighter future, to be played out somewhere else. salon.com | April 3, 2000   - - - - - - - - - - - - About the writer Steve Burgess is a Salon contributing writer.