February Lull

Hang in there everybody. There’s only a few more weeks until there’s baseball to talk about again. Which means that there’s only a few more weeks of me filing what amounts to the Austin Dispatch just to have something to write about here. Although that’s not totally true, because I think I have a few more things to write before the offseason ends.

Today, though, it’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m tired. It’s funny: one of the reasons I moved from Chicago was that I hated this time of year because the weather sapped all my energy. Down south I have plenty of energy, but the last couple of weeks I might have gone too far the other direction: I’m going out carousing too much, and hardly writing at all.

Tuesday it was Cyril Neville, less famous than his brothers perhaps but great nonetheless, an undeniable force of charisma. He plays with a group called Tribe 13, a collection of New Orleans and Austin musicians, and Tuesday they were over at the Saxon Pub playing funk and soul and salsa and b-boy rap and everything between. I don’t mean to imply that I’m glad for what happened to New Orleans or even to suggest that this is a silver lining, that tragedy being perhaps the largest source of tragedy and then shame on our great country in my lifetime, but I will say that the displaced New Orleans musicians that have set up in Austin are fantastic and I feel fortunate to listen.

Wednesday it was a friend of mine singing up north outside of town with a group of her friends in an ad-hoc band, mostly jazz standards but also a few songs she’s written and recorded. Not professionally recorded but not amateur either, being that these days technology allows musicians to get into studios and record and work with Pro Tools and so on with fine results. This was the first time I had heard her sing live and I was surprised at the versatility of her voice. I knew it was good but good is one thing and dynamic is another, so now I think she might actually be able to make it as a musician in some fashion or another. Or not; maybe she’ll become a karaoke queen or a church choir diva. Who knows? I’m pulling for her, anyway.

Thursday it was supposed to be Sarah Lee Guthrie, Woody’s granddaughter and Arlo’s daughter, over by Lake Austin, but instead I was working late on a server with data that became corrupt, and didn’t get done until 2 in the morning. I’m not complaining because that’s part of the job and I knew that when I took it, but I was disappointed to miss her.

And last night it was appetizers and drinks with people from work, skipping out a little early and hanging out. After the restaurant my boss took me to a little wine bar, a swank little place down a little side street that you’d never notice unless you knew it was there. I am not a wine enthusiast by any means, but my boss was paying and wanted to tell me some stories and so I did what anyone would do, which is go along and enjoy it for what it is. KJM had helped me with some wine tips to fit a scene in some writing I was working on a few months ago, and as a result I was able to namecheck a Ravenswood Zinfandel to fine effect, but it was a total poser move of course, not that I pretended different. The last glass, a Petite Sirah from California -- ‘sirah’ spelled with an ‘I’ -- was quite good. Maybe KJM could tell me the difference between a syrah and a sirah then I’ll have more ammo if I find myself in conversations there again.

And today I’m watching Major League. I bought it last week because I couldn’t help myself; I used to watch it when various roommates owned it, but I never owned it until now. Of my favorite baseball movies, it’s the funniest.

I was watching the Olympics before, but I couldn’t stick with it. Last night when I got home Bob Costas was explaining something about the exports of Senegal, and then he dropped a joke about how the supermodel in the scene of something-or-other should have known to wear more clothes. It was funny, but I can’t remember the details, probably on account of the Sirah.

Last winter Olympics I was a senior in college and I had plenty of time, and believe it or not I got into watching curling. I mentioned this last night and others at the table likened it to watching paint dry, although I’ve heard people say the same thing about watching baseball on TV too. I’m going to watch it again this year and see if it’s still captivating. But curling doesn’t start until Monday and so why not watch a great baseball movie? And write, since I’ve seen the movie so many times that I can watch it with background attention.

It’s working, too: the movie is providing something of a fix for my baseball habit. Uecker’s already on fire and Jake just dropped in the “I make the league minimum” comment to the highbrow hornball woman, and Vaughn just got his glasses so we’re cruising right along. Fantastic.

The movie works for a lot of reasons, mainly as an underdog finding its way by forging identity, or something or other like that. And then you get to the end, and Taylor points to center field, and all the blue collar workers, freaks and assorted Tribe fans get to the edge of their seats, and then “Oh my God the Indians win it!” as Taylor bunts and Hayes comes around to score. Yes, there is magic on a baseball field if you catch it at the right moment, and even if there will never quite be a team like this one in life it’s nothing but fun watching them win the pennant over the Yankees. Not a bad way to beat the February lull.