You know the drill: words by BJ, pics by Scott:
Spring Training, Day One
We left LA under the cloak of darkness and rain, determined to make camp (or Ranch) before high noon. Our trusty steed, Bentley (pronounced Bent-Lay) galloped effortlessly through the unforgiving terrain known as San Berdoo before arriving at the windy, dusty (not you, SoSG Dusty) city known as Glendale, AZ. Parking in the exclusive lot reserved for the vaunted media, we sauntered into the public relations office, banged our hands on the desk and demanded our passes, muttering, we work for SoSG; don't you know how important we are!?!
After our escort out of the office by two rather large security officials, we apologized and received one working media pass for the writer. I tried to explain that Mr. Killeen was the more valuable member of this team, but they regard photographers on the same level as earwigs and silverfish. No go. Our lovely host Jared, when I asked where the pass allowed me to go, replied, anywhere. Anywhere? An-y-where??? Which started me thinking about my options. First, I decided I'd go to the shower room in the clubhouse and wait for Mr. Ethier to sashay by nekked, but I figured that would guarantee this would be my final visit ever to Camelback Ranch. My next anywhere idea was to crash Vinny's box and holla "SOSG RULES!" during the first inning, but they had him well sequestered from the lowlife Neanderthal writers such as myself. Scratch that plan.
The only option left was to go to the media room, where I was sure I would find laid out before me a free, noon-time feast that would make Henry VIII blush. I climbed the stairs, threw open the door, and came face to face with reality.
No thrones, no Flintstones-sized turkey legs. No Pulitzer trophies lying around. Just two bare tables, a bathroom, and two rows of elevated counters from which working writers can type to their hearts' desire whilst enjoying the shade of a roof and the open windows that looked out over the field of green. All was not lost, however. There was a machine that contained free water and soda.
It appears there is a vast difference between a sportswriter and an auto slog. Truth is, I felt out of place in my Dodgers Pool Crashers T-shirt, Dodgers earrings, Dodgers socks and Dodgers headband.
The rest of the guys up there were working stiffs in street clothes. I reminded myself I was a blogger, and it's okay for us to play favorites.
Not wanting to take up anyone's important space, I slithered back down the stairs to mix with my own kind — crazed fans who scream, applaud, and wear Blue from head to toe.
Today I watched the game from our paying seats, while Scott ran around shooting a barrage of unknown pitchers just in case they turn into somebodies down the line.
I felt kinda like Greinke after his fourth pitch: unsure of what tomorrow will bring.
Tomorrow will come, however, and I will try again in the press room. this time I am determined to act like a real reporter, taking notes, writing witty remarks on the game thread, sitting reactionless during home runs, and furiously typing away on my MacBook, pretending to be one of "them."
And I will do my best to score some jerky for the team (Okay, Orel). Now...where is that shower room?
Thanks as always, guys!