and turned on the radio. The FM band offered only that infernal rock 'n' roll or that pathetic country music. Desperate, I switched to the AM band, hoping to find some classical or maybe some jazz. Instead, my ears were the recipient of a nearly overwhelming aural assault:
"Molly steps back in." The high-pitched voice was a bit haggard, a bit tense, but chipper. "Two strikes. Two outs. Here's the pitch. To left and deep! Heeeeey! Get up! GET UP! GET OUTTA HERE! GONE! A grand salami! Molly's done it! He's hit a grand salami! The Brewers win! THE BREWERS WIN!"
Silence. Had the poor man suffered an aneurysm and suddenly found himself lying face down, his skull full of blood, death taking him very quickly?
No, the voice returned, but motherless spawn of Satan, what in the name of the blistering winds of Hades was that? Curious, I continued to listen.
It was a baseball game. All that commotion over a bunch of illiterate grown men chasing a little ball while thousands of beer-swilling members of what Mencken called "the booboisie" watched in rapture - all of these people, players and spectators alike, too daft to comprehend a real game, like cricket.
Still, the passion was admirable. Apparently, the Brewers of Milwaukee, playing at their home arena, were trailing by three scores when a fellow named Paul Molitor attempted to hit. The announcer had called him Molly - once again, another example of Americans and their nicknames. Molly, with one fierce strike, allowed his team to overcome their deficit and replace defeat with victory.
I found myself amazed by the seriousness with which these mortals placed upon these games. There might be murder, mayhem or high property taxes, but these people seemed more interested in discussing the latest exploits of their Brewers, Badgers or Packers. Extraordinary.
Further proof of this American preoccupation with sporting events came at shift's end when I found Kern and another night driver, Henry, discussing the baseball contest as they completed their paperwork. Supremely overweight, with a shaggy beard and wild, greasy hair restrained by a soiled baseball cap, Henry was about as jocular as a tall glass of vinegar, but apparently he truly loved his sports; this evening's baseball match was the only topic of conversation where I had ever witnessed any joy or animation on Henry's part.
"Man, oh, man," Henry squealed, "what a game! What a game!"
"That was an exciting conclusion to that contest," I interjected, settling down before an adding machine at the table next to theirs. They turned and stared. When inRome , I suppose.
"I didn't know you were a baseball fan, Count," Kern said.
"Figured you more for soccer," Henry added, then turned back to Kern. "Europeans dig soccer because they're so used to long, protracted land wars. That's why Americans can't get into it."
"Actually," I countered, "it was an accident that I managed to hear the conclusion of the contest. I was searching for something palatable to listen to when I heard the game-winning stroke."
"A great call," Henry said. "I love it when Uecker calls a home run. 'Get up! Get up! Get outta here! Goooooooooooooooone!'"
"I love the tips I get when outta-towners hear Bob, and I tell 'em it's Bob Uecker, and he belongs to us." Kern laughed loudly. "They're used to the buffoon on the Miller Lite commercials, but they don't know he's aMilwaukee boy, born and bred."
"I must say, I found him quite evocative," I replied. "Baseball is not a game of which I have ever paid much consideration, but certainly the man's passion for the event was quite compelling."
"Ever been to a baseball game?" Kern asked.
"It has never been high on my list of priorities."
Kern slapped himself loudly on an ample thigh. "Well, it's high time you shifted your priorities. A group of us are going to the Muskies game Monday. Wanna come with?"
"Muskies?" What on Earth is a Muskie? Was that not a senator from the state ofMaine ?
Henry answered my apparent consternation. "That's the Madison Muskies. The A's single A club."
"I am afraid I still do not understand." Motherless spawn of Satan. When will the Americans ever learn to speak English?
Kern shoved the adding machine aside, tucked his waybill into the envelope and sealed it with the attached string. "The Brewers play in the major leagues. That's the highest level of baseball in the country."
"Whole fucking world!" Henry interjected.
"The Japanese might disagree," Kern countered, "but anyway, there's twenty-six major league teams. Each major league team has several minor league teams where