At large in the land of the Delta blues

Aug. 18, 2005

Dear Pat,

For many years the door of my refrigerator was decorated with a photograph that appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle. The photo was taken from the centerfield bleachers looking toward home plate. In the foreground, on one of the bench seats, a lovely woman in a bikini lay on her stomach watching the game, her legs crossed nonchalantly in the air.

In a single image the photograph captured two things I loved: Baseball and beautiful women.

Those days I went to see the semi-pro Humboldt Crabs and the San Francisco Giants play often. These days I mostly watch the St. Louis Cardinals on TV.

But last weekend, two male friends and I headed south to see the Memphis Redbirds play. I point out that the friends were male because DC and my female friends have little interest in baseball. One has a theory that the only reason women go to baseball games is to be supportive of their husbands. That's difficult to believe. At least the woman in the bikini seemed to be alone.

If an excuse to go were needed, I could have told DC that the Memphis Redbirds aren't like other teams in professional baseball. They are owned by a not-for-profit foundation that funds youth sports programs in the inner city and in Memphis schools. Besides playing baseball, the Memphis Redbirds do good works.

But no excuse was necessary. DC expected us to have an adventure in the land of the Delta blues, a road trip fueled by testosterone. Fear and loathing in Memphis.

During the three-hour drive there, we talked about how withered the corn crop looks. A drought has Missouri in its clutches. The rivers are all low. The ground is parched.

That kind of talk gave us powerful thirsts. Diet Coke anyone?

We arrived in Memphis two hours before the game was to start. Plenty of time to explore Memphis' underbelly. We decided to have lunch.

The grounds around Redbirds' nifty new stadium offer lots of before- and post-game activities. One is a rock climbing. We looked at the huge wall appreciatively as we stood below big fans blowing mists of cooling water on the overheated. Boy, Memphis can get hot.

Between innings, cheerleaders sometimes went onto the field and made with the rah-rah-rah. Beautiful women belong at baseball games. Cheerleaders don't. One was awfully fetching, though.

Years ago baseball's American League began allowing players who never play a position to bat for the pitcher. The goal was to increase the number of runs scored to make the games more exciting.

The game was exciting, won 1-0 by the Redbirds. Their pitcher struck out 15 batters in seven innings. He was masterful.

You should have heard us trash the American League.

Some people say the blues began on Beale Street in Memphis. W.C. Handy begat Muddy Waters, Albert King and finally B.B. King, who has a restaurant on Beale now. After the game, we walked down to B.B.'s restaurant, hoping to catch a whiff of the atmosphere that birthed the blues.

We had some barbecue while the band played "My Girl."

I don't know what happened to the girl in the centerfield bleachers. The boy who loved her has grown older but in some ways hasn't changed at all.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.