Back in March, I picked up a “flex book” for the Brooklyn Cyclones — vouchers for 10 discounted tickets, to be used for whatever games I wanted, tickets distributed among them as I saw fit. It was a good idea and thinking about baseball made me happy, so why not?
Then life got in the way: travel, heat waves, miscellaneous domesticity. Earlier this month I got an email reminding me that the season was ebbing away and I hadn’t used any of my vouchers. Which was kind of the Cyclones — after all, they already had my money and didn’t particularly need me.
Then, while I was in Atlanta at Comic-Con, my phone rang. I answered it reflexively and it was … King Henry. Yes, the indefatigably cheerful on-field ringleader of Cyclones between-inning skits. His Highness’s mission was the same as the sender of the earlier email’s: a cheerful reminder that there were fewer and fewer dates left.
(Now, I’m well aware that everyone who works for a team in the low minors does every job — years ago our kid was mystified that the Cyclones employee who wrangled their birthday party somehow vanished before Sandy the Seagull paid a visit and then returned afterwards — but still, there I was at a sci-fi convention chatting with King Henry. Hadn’t had that on my bingo card!)
Tuesday’s heat was miserable bordering on crushing, but I was determined: I was headed for Coney Island. I collected my pristine book of vouchers at the box office, traded one of them for a Cyclones cap in Miami Vice teal and pink, and secured a Brooklyn summer ale and a Nathan’s hot dog.
And you know what? I immediately felt happier. For one thing, it was a good 15 degrees cooler next to the Atlantic Ocean. There were Sandy and Peewee, King Henry and the surf squad, and the Cyclones themselves, wearing blue and pink for some reason. I settled into my (very good) seat, noted the scoreboard had been revamped, and got down to the business of watching Single-A baseball.
Which is so wonderfully different. Watching the Cyclones, I don’t live or die on every pitch. I clap for solid hits or nice plays, try not to groan at misplays (Emily and I used to remind each other that “anything can happen in the New York-Penn League,” and the same is the case in the South Atlantic League), and I smile at seeing only two umps and managers coaching third. I lose track of who’s at the plate, forget the score, and it’s fine. I’m free to simply enjoy the sounds and rhythms of baseball.
By the middle innings the sun had gone down, taking even more edge off the heat, and the neon rings that adorn the light poles at Maimonides Park had started to glow. Beyond the right field corner, the Parachute Jump coruscated merrily, its own vertical light show. I got a cup of ice cream (with sprinkles, of course), secured a 2025 Cyclones baseball card set, and watched the Cyclones and the Jersey Shore Blueclaws do battle.
Said battle didn’t go particularly well for the Cyclones, who fell behind, tied it but then fell behind again. (Unfortunately Brendan Girton, who’s had a nice year as a starter, came out of the game in the second with an apparent injury.) I didn’t see them lose [1], because by the eighth I’d had my fill and I knew the Mets and Padres were soon to commence hostilities.
So in the eighth inning I left the Cyclones to it — something I’ve almost never done at Citi Field, but which isn’t a sin in A-ball. Life got in the way earlier this summer, but the Cyclones were waiting once I was able to rearrange things, and I was happy to discover how much I’d missed them.
As for the actual Mets and whatever happened in San Diego … oh, let’s not ruin a nice night [2].