Wednesday, April 19, 2006

I had to go down into town early yesterday, so I had more time in the evening than is usual on a weekday. Discovered that they have evening games at the little league park up on the other side of 5th Avenue on weeknights. Watched about five innings instead of going on the walk I had planned. I had thought that co-ed little league teams was a hollywood invention - but sure enough, the announcer introduced "Brittany" and "Dakota" along with "Chandler" and at least three "Tyler"s. Doesn't anyone name their kids "Mary" or "Dave" or "Bill" anymore? I thought one kid had a normal "Steven", until he came around again in the batting rotation & I realized I was just mis-hearing "Evan". Sigh.

The little league park has two small fields, which is about all they need when it comes to little league. They try hard, but the parents' cars, trucks and minivans, pulled up almost to the fence in lieu of bleachers, were in no danger of getting dinged by a home run. You couldn't say the same about the cars in the parking lot proper, which were menaced by three wild fouls while I was watching. Luckily, a row of ball-eating poplars were planted along the verge, and mostly caught said pop fouls before hitting the properly parked vehicles.

It really is a nice location, especially the upper field, which commands a royal view of the Spring Creek water gap, the Bald Eagles rising closely on either side like the high walls of a vaster baseball stadium. The view from home plate must be spectacular in high summer. The fence surrounding the field obscures the rather grotty extension of the park, which is built on landfill, and pretty rubbled and low-quality landfill at that. At some point they're going to be able to put a third field in as the landfill advances the hillside over the ravine to the north, but until then it isn't the sort of space that delights the eye.

Walking home later that evening, I noticed that town was full of motorcycles roaring by in formation, getting more and more numerous as I got closer to home. Yep, it was what I thought - a biker had passed to the great highway beyond, and his or her compadres were holding a viewing at Wetzels' at the front of the block. There were Harleys parked en enchelon along every street, and on the sidewalk in front of the Presbyterian church across the way. Bikers in full traditional costume were waiting in line outside of the funeral home, mixed in with folks in more standard mourning gear, suits and ties and the like. Luckily, they weren't as loud as the bikers can sometimes get - I only heard the roar of an overrevved engine once or twice the rest of the evening. Not nearly as bad as the Cruise, really.

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