Ahh, vacation. If only it could come along more often. It gives one the chance to escape the incessant drone of everyday normalcy. It gives one the chance to hit the road and see new things. It gives one the chance to be unexpectedly awoken at 5 a.m. and be instilled with a momentary fear that their life will end in Arkansas... but, I'm getting ahead of myself.
The inaugural Road Trip of Derek Larson kicked off Tuesday morning. Unforeseen circumstances (e.g., the need for a pair of new tires. Nothing like shelling out cash before you even approach any road the trip involves.), pushed departure time back a couple of hours, but I soon found myself heading southeast, like a migratory bird whose inner compass is slightly askew.
After venturing through thriving metropolises (metropoli?) like Gas, Kan.*, and (insert indistinct town name here), Mo., I arrived in Springdale, Ark.
*Pun not originally intended, but the author chuckled upon realization.
As one who enjoys the finer things in life.. such as television and flim, I have noticed that Arkansas is oft characterized as a state full of southern yokels who might be as likely to marry a pig as they would be to bathe. I fully expected this erroneous depiction to be rendered moot right away. Unfortunately, the man at the hotel counter chose to fuel the fire.
How so?
Let's just say the moon was bright in the Holiday Inn.
That's right, when I strolled into the hotel, the first thing I was greeted by was the sight of a large man bent at the waist so he could lean on the check-in counter, with his pants drooping a quarter of the way down his backside... Welcome to Arkansas, Derek.*
*While this story is true, most folks I encountered in Arkansas were very nice folks. I'd also like to stress that I saw no one married to a pig.
After Arkansas' Grand Canyon made his exit, I booked a room and that was that... Well sort of. This would normally be a rather mundane portion of the trip, but the guy working the check-in counter sounded identical to Jonah Hill, of Superbad (and other movies) fame. He also looked a bit like him, which made the situation even more eerie. I nearly asked him to say a line from one of his movies, but my better judgment won out. (Lousy brain.)
After some unwinding at the hotel, it was off to Arvest Field, to witness my first minor league baseball game. In post-game wrap fashion, we'll hit the highlights...
As I approached the stadium, I was greeted by the Arkansas branch of the Scottish National Guard. While I may have misidentified these gentlemen, their music was, well, bagpipey. Unfortunately, because I grew up watching professional wrestling, I paused for a bit waiting for Rowdy Roddy Piper to make an entrance. He never showed up.
Once inside, I strolled around the concourse to check things out. There was an autograph booth set up, with no line whatsoever. Like an eight-year-old at his first ballgame, I soon found myself asking two guys (both younger than me) for their autographs, even though I did not recognize their names. Afterward, I grabbed a hotdog and a soda (total price - waaaay more than they were worth. It seems that major league food prices still apply in minor league parks.), and found a picnic table in the shade to eat a bit. During this time, the folks controlling the pregame music decided it would be a good idea to play Eiffel 65's "I'm Blue." At this point I found myself trying to decide whether it was done on a bet, or if the "DJ" had enjoyed a few pregame drinks. I'm still not sure what was going on.
After eating, I reluctantly left the comfort of the shade to find my seat. I discovered one big positive about minor league baseball - excellent seats for low cost. The above picture was taken from the comfort of seat 16 in row D. Unfortunately, that line of shade was still 30 minutes away at this point.
For those interested in the actual baseball aspect of this experience, the game featured the Northwest Arkansas Naturals (the Kansas City Royals' AA affiliate) and the Tulsa Drillers (the Colorado Rockies' AA affiliate). Sitting four rows back from the field with my Royals cap on, I figured I might encounter others sporting something similar. I figured wrong. I spotted no other fans wearing any sort of gear promoting the big league club. In fact, I only spotted two other people in the stadium wearing anything relating to Major League Baseball at all. One was wearing a Ryne Sandberg Cubs jersey, the other donned a Vernon Wells Blue Jays t-shirt. I hope to one day figure out how fan gear of a Hall of Famer who retired 12 years ago and a guy who plays in Canada relates to that particular contest in Springdale... Some day.
As the game progressed, I was reminded that some baseball terminology is easier to decipher than others. This reminder was generously provided by the absolutely clueless woman sitting directly behind me. Perhaps the baseball geek that often fuels my thinking is the only one that would notice this, but she incorrectly used the phrase "1-2-3 inning" twice in a three-inning span. For those that might be unaware, a "1-2-3 inning" is a half-inning in which all three outs are recorded in consecutive fashion. No hits. No walks. No catcher interference. Nothing but outs. This vocal fan, who seemed to always make sure all around were listening to her, deemed one inning that of the 1-2-3 variety, despite the fact that only two outs had been recorded. A couple innings later, she pulled the phrase out again, even though a hitter had singled earlier and had been standing on first base - just 20 yards away from her, for a few minutes. The situation served as a strong reminder that one should only speak knowledgeably of a subject if they actually are knowledgeable of said subject.*
*Editor's note: The author has been reminded that he often uses this very space to write about subjects he knows virtually nothing about. Forgive him. He's a little slow.
As the game carried on, I noticed that I was the only - ONLY - individual seated in my entire row. Granted, the ballpark certainly wasn't full, but this seemed excessive. There were 18 seats, but just one seat filler. That situation dissolved when a quartet of guys arrived a few minutes. These four, who all appeared to be around 30 and were downing beers like the keg was almost empty, seemed to have their pick of seats in my section. They chose my row, which was fine. They chose my end of the row, which was fine. They chose the four seats directly to my right. This was a bit odd. I seached the depths of my mind in attempt to think of a situation where I might have invited four heavy drinkers to come to the ballgame with me. The search drew no results.
For the next few innings, I was "treated" to their "side-splitting jokes" and "hilarious mockery" of the opposing first base coach... Okay, enough of the sarcasm, these guys were basically the baseball fan versions of any obnoxious drunk you may have ever encountered. Their "jokes" consisted of little more than talking about how the first base coach was not in the coach's box (although they laughed like the Full House laugh track every time it was mentioned), and their taunting of the coach did not turn out so well. You see, Tulsa's first base coach was also the hitting coach, and the Drillers scored 11 runs on 16 hits. Advantage: coach.
The sudsy crew left before the end of the game, as did most other fans. Before they left I caught a t-shirt thrown by Strike the Naturals' mascot, despite the fact that Norm (made up name for inebriated individual next to me) was draped over me like an NFL defensive back. At this point I did a touchdown dance, shoved the shirt in his face, and told him to bring his 'A' game next time... In reality, I listened to his slurred ramblings, showed him the shirt he almost had, and sat back down to continue keeping score. Sorry, readers who enjoy personal conflict, I'm mild-mannered.
The picture above tells the story. One game on The Road Trip of Derek Larson down, one Royals-affiliated loss witnessed. Nevertheless, there were a few players I was impressed with. If I had to pick four names of players to keep an eye out for in years to come, I'd say David Lough (centerfielder), Jarrod Dyson (leftfielder), Jeff Bianchi (shortstop), and Juan Abreau (relief pitcher, hit 96 on the radar gun).
Back at the hotel, I soon felt like I was losing another battle. I discovered that my lodging place of choice did not feature free Internet access or a free breakfast for the following morning, and the pillows on my bed were thicker than most couch cushions. When lying in bed, I felt as if my neck was being contorted in impossible ways.
Luckily*, I didn't have to deal with these substandard conditions for long. At 5:08 a.m. the next morning, I awoke to the sound of an alarm the likes of which one hears on television when some sort of secure goverment facility has been infiltrated by evil-doers. Thanks to a working knowledge of the television show '24', I realized that nothing good comes about when CTU security is breached, so I had little chance to survive at a Holiday Inn. I listened to the voice accompanying the alarm instructing all to head downstairs via the stairway, got dressed in rattled fashion, grabbed a couple belongings, and took off for the lobby.
*Is luckily the right word?
In the lobby, I encountered a bevy of other hotel occupants looking as disheveled as I was. What was the emergency? Who had broken in? Where was the fire? The questions were tossed about. The answer was that it all was well. While it was a relief to hear, it was also a bit disturbing to hear the hotel employee refer to the false alarm situation as something that happens "periodically."
Pardon? Full moons happen periodically. False alarms in a hotel that instill all staying there with a sense of unrest at an early hour should not.
Now awake a full three hours earlier than I had originally planned, I chose to embrace opportunity and hit the road.
Planned as a rather uneventful travel day, after the morning's surprise, this day reverted to the uneventful route as I rolled out of Arkansas, all the way across Missouri and into Illinois. The highlights:
- When ordering a CroisSonic sandwich and a cherry Sprite for breakfast at Sonic, the communications specialist on the other end of my order decided it would be a good idea to ask if I would like mozzerella sticks, as well. Hmmm... deep fried cheese first thing in the morning. Tempting, but I had to pass.
-Prior to this trip, I had no idea that there was a city called Mexico in Missouri. Having never been to Mexico (aside from the "New" version of it), I had stop in. Erring on the side of caution, I chose not to drink the water.
- I discovered that western Illinois has some of the worst highways I have ever encountered. The state of their roadways is downright shabby. You know the feeling when you are clinking along as you climb the initial slope of a roller coaster? That's similar to the bumpy sensation I encountered on several highways in the western part of the state.
Two days, and nearly 2,000 words later, it's time for bed. Here's hoping morning arrives a bit later tomorrow.
The inaugural Road Trip of Derek Larson kicked off Tuesday morning. Unforeseen circumstances (e.g., the need for a pair of new tires. Nothing like shelling out cash before you even approach any road the trip involves.), pushed departure time back a couple of hours, but I soon found myself heading southeast, like a migratory bird whose inner compass is slightly askew.
After venturing through thriving metropolises (metropoli?) like Gas, Kan.*, and (insert indistinct town name here), Mo., I arrived in Springdale, Ark.
*Pun not originally intended, but the author chuckled upon realization.
As one who enjoys the finer things in life.. such as television and flim, I have noticed that Arkansas is oft characterized as a state full of southern yokels who might be as likely to marry a pig as they would be to bathe. I fully expected this erroneous depiction to be rendered moot right away. Unfortunately, the man at the hotel counter chose to fuel the fire.
How so?
Let's just say the moon was bright in the Holiday Inn.
That's right, when I strolled into the hotel, the first thing I was greeted by was the sight of a large man bent at the waist so he could lean on the check-in counter, with his pants drooping a quarter of the way down his backside... Welcome to Arkansas, Derek.*
*While this story is true, most folks I encountered in Arkansas were very nice folks. I'd also like to stress that I saw no one married to a pig.
After Arkansas' Grand Canyon made his exit, I booked a room and that was that... Well sort of. This would normally be a rather mundane portion of the trip, but the guy working the check-in counter sounded identical to Jonah Hill, of Superbad (and other movies) fame. He also looked a bit like him, which made the situation even more eerie. I nearly asked him to say a line from one of his movies, but my better judgment won out. (Lousy brain.)
After some unwinding at the hotel, it was off to Arvest Field, to witness my first minor league baseball game. In post-game wrap fashion, we'll hit the highlights...
Once inside, I strolled around the concourse to check things out. There was an autograph booth set up, with no line whatsoever. Like an eight-year-old at his first ballgame, I soon found myself asking two guys (both younger than me) for their autographs, even though I did not recognize their names. Afterward, I grabbed a hotdog and a soda (total price - waaaay more than they were worth. It seems that major league food prices still apply in minor league parks.), and found a picnic table in the shade to eat a bit. During this time, the folks controlling the pregame music decided it would be a good idea to play Eiffel 65's "I'm Blue." At this point I found myself trying to decide whether it was done on a bet, or if the "DJ" had enjoyed a few pregame drinks. I'm still not sure what was going on.
After eating, I reluctantly left the comfort of the shade to find my seat. I discovered one big positive about minor league baseball - excellent seats for low cost. The above picture was taken from the comfort of seat 16 in row D. Unfortunately, that line of shade was still 30 minutes away at this point.
For those interested in the actual baseball aspect of this experience, the game featured the Northwest Arkansas Naturals (the Kansas City Royals' AA affiliate) and the Tulsa Drillers (the Colorado Rockies' AA affiliate). Sitting four rows back from the field with my Royals cap on, I figured I might encounter others sporting something similar. I figured wrong. I spotted no other fans wearing any sort of gear promoting the big league club. In fact, I only spotted two other people in the stadium wearing anything relating to Major League Baseball at all. One was wearing a Ryne Sandberg Cubs jersey, the other donned a Vernon Wells Blue Jays t-shirt. I hope to one day figure out how fan gear of a Hall of Famer who retired 12 years ago and a guy who plays in Canada relates to that particular contest in Springdale... Some day.
As the game progressed, I was reminded that some baseball terminology is easier to decipher than others. This reminder was generously provided by the absolutely clueless woman sitting directly behind me. Perhaps the baseball geek that often fuels my thinking is the only one that would notice this, but she incorrectly used the phrase "1-2-3 inning" twice in a three-inning span. For those that might be unaware, a "1-2-3 inning" is a half-inning in which all three outs are recorded in consecutive fashion. No hits. No walks. No catcher interference. Nothing but outs. This vocal fan, who seemed to always make sure all around were listening to her, deemed one inning that of the 1-2-3 variety, despite the fact that only two outs had been recorded. A couple innings later, she pulled the phrase out again, even though a hitter had singled earlier and had been standing on first base - just 20 yards away from her, for a few minutes. The situation served as a strong reminder that one should only speak knowledgeably of a subject if they actually are knowledgeable of said subject.*
*Editor's note: The author has been reminded that he often uses this very space to write about subjects he knows virtually nothing about. Forgive him. He's a little slow.
As the game carried on, I noticed that I was the only - ONLY - individual seated in my entire row. Granted, the ballpark certainly wasn't full, but this seemed excessive. There were 18 seats, but just one seat filler. That situation dissolved when a quartet of guys arrived a few minutes. These four, who all appeared to be around 30 and were downing beers like the keg was almost empty, seemed to have their pick of seats in my section. They chose my row, which was fine. They chose my end of the row, which was fine. They chose the four seats directly to my right. This was a bit odd. I seached the depths of my mind in attempt to think of a situation where I might have invited four heavy drinkers to come to the ballgame with me. The search drew no results.
For the next few innings, I was "treated" to their "side-splitting jokes" and "hilarious mockery" of the opposing first base coach... Okay, enough of the sarcasm, these guys were basically the baseball fan versions of any obnoxious drunk you may have ever encountered. Their "jokes" consisted of little more than talking about how the first base coach was not in the coach's box (although they laughed like the Full House laugh track every time it was mentioned), and their taunting of the coach did not turn out so well. You see, Tulsa's first base coach was also the hitting coach, and the Drillers scored 11 runs on 16 hits. Advantage: coach.
The sudsy crew left before the end of the game, as did most other fans. Before they left I caught a t-shirt thrown by Strike the Naturals' mascot, despite the fact that Norm (made up name for inebriated individual next to me) was draped over me like an NFL defensive back. At this point I did a touchdown dance, shoved the shirt in his face, and told him to bring his 'A' game next time... In reality, I listened to his slurred ramblings, showed him the shirt he almost had, and sat back down to continue keeping score. Sorry, readers who enjoy personal conflict, I'm mild-mannered.
The picture above tells the story. One game on The Road Trip of Derek Larson down, one Royals-affiliated loss witnessed. Nevertheless, there were a few players I was impressed with. If I had to pick four names of players to keep an eye out for in years to come, I'd say David Lough (centerfielder), Jarrod Dyson (leftfielder), Jeff Bianchi (shortstop), and Juan Abreau (relief pitcher, hit 96 on the radar gun).
Back at the hotel, I soon felt like I was losing another battle. I discovered that my lodging place of choice did not feature free Internet access or a free breakfast for the following morning, and the pillows on my bed were thicker than most couch cushions. When lying in bed, I felt as if my neck was being contorted in impossible ways.
Luckily*, I didn't have to deal with these substandard conditions for long. At 5:08 a.m. the next morning, I awoke to the sound of an alarm the likes of which one hears on television when some sort of secure goverment facility has been infiltrated by evil-doers. Thanks to a working knowledge of the television show '24', I realized that nothing good comes about when CTU security is breached, so I had little chance to survive at a Holiday Inn. I listened to the voice accompanying the alarm instructing all to head downstairs via the stairway, got dressed in rattled fashion, grabbed a couple belongings, and took off for the lobby.
*Is luckily the right word?
In the lobby, I encountered a bevy of other hotel occupants looking as disheveled as I was. What was the emergency? Who had broken in? Where was the fire? The questions were tossed about. The answer was that it all was well. While it was a relief to hear, it was also a bit disturbing to hear the hotel employee refer to the false alarm situation as something that happens "periodically."
Pardon? Full moons happen periodically. False alarms in a hotel that instill all staying there with a sense of unrest at an early hour should not.
Now awake a full three hours earlier than I had originally planned, I chose to embrace opportunity and hit the road.
Planned as a rather uneventful travel day, after the morning's surprise, this day reverted to the uneventful route as I rolled out of Arkansas, all the way across Missouri and into Illinois. The highlights:
- When ordering a CroisSonic sandwich and a cherry Sprite for breakfast at Sonic, the communications specialist on the other end of my order decided it would be a good idea to ask if I would like mozzerella sticks, as well. Hmmm... deep fried cheese first thing in the morning. Tempting, but I had to pass.
-Prior to this trip, I had no idea that there was a city called Mexico in Missouri. Having never been to Mexico (aside from the "New" version of it), I had stop in. Erring on the side of caution, I chose not to drink the water.
- I discovered that western Illinois has some of the worst highways I have ever encountered. The state of their roadways is downright shabby. You know the feeling when you are clinking along as you climb the initial slope of a roller coaster? That's similar to the bumpy sensation I encountered on several highways in the western part of the state.
Two days, and nearly 2,000 words later, it's time for bed. Here's hoping morning arrives a bit later tomorrow.
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