Baseball on the Rox

Those of us who live on the South Shore can tell you: It wasn’t that long ago, maybe three or four years, that telling someone you were spending a warm summer evening taking the wife and kids to Brockton for a night of fun was code for “I’m a crack addict on my way to purchase drugs. Call DSS and have them take my children away while there‘s still a chance to save them.” Scoring some rock was the only reason anyone went to Brockton.

But not anymore. Not since the Brockton Rox came to town. Last Sunday night I was at a Rox game because my lovely wife was singing the National Anthem. (My advice for someone who wants free tickets to ballgames is to marry someone with talent, then pimp them out like this for your own benefit. Works for me.)

For those who don’t know, the Rox are a minor league team in the independent Northern League. The team was founded by legendary minor league baseball owner Mike Veeck (son of legendary major league baseball owner Bill Veeck) and Bill Murray, arguably the funniest man who ever lived. If ever there were two guys who knew how to show people a good time (even in a hell hole like Brockton) these would be the guys.

I don’t know what it is about decaying former mill towns that makes them great meccas for minor league baseball. Brockton was once a manufacturing center with shoe factories on every street corner. This was in the days before the shoe makers figured out that people would accept a lot less money to make the shoes if they had a bayonet stuck in their backs. Unfortunately our pesky labor laws don‘t allow this, so they all moved their plants to more (ahem) friendly jurisdictions. Overseas.

Pittsfield (home of the Double A Mets) is another such town. I’ve driven through Pittsfield, and while I never saw any fields, I do agree that it’s the pits. I’ve also been through Lowell (home of the Red Sox Single A affiliate Spinners) and I made sure to take pictures, because I’m not going back.

For as long as I can remember, Main Street in Brockton, instead of having department stores, restaurants and shops, consisted of block-after-block of boarded-up store fronts, hair boutiques and the final nail in any city’s coffin, “Check$ Ca$hed” signs.

A few years ago the state gave the area exactly what it needed: a new courthouse. This idea, (bringing justice closer to the people who actually commit the crimes) was one of those rare moments of wise, practical, urban planning. It was like putting the fish market next to the docks or a tort lawyer’s office next to the emergency room; it was a perfect fit.

But no one imagined that the City of Champions could be a haven for people looking to do something with their families on a summer night. No one except Veeck and Murray. They’ve built a business modeled on the radical idea that if you give people a little entertainment but don’t grab them by the ankles and shake them upside down to get all the loose change in their pockets, they might have a good time and come back again. And while it’s never been tried before, it’s an idea that’s just crazy enough to work

When they were first established, telling people that the Rox’ games were a good time was like telling people that “The Shawshank Redemption” was a great movie. No one believed you except the people that had seen it for themselves.

Here are a few knee-jerk reactions from a night spent watching the Bush Leaguers:

*One thing you quickly find out once you have kids, (particularly kids of different ages) is that nothing is “fun for the whole family.” They don’t have circuses with Spongebob Squarepants, Game Cube games, Hooters waitresses, poker tournaments, antique furniture shopping and Clay Aiken music. The closest you can come is Minor League baseball.

*To that end, the Rox’ owners understand that no one who watches a Minor League game cares who wins or loses, they just want to be entertained. So they fill the game with extras. There’s balloons and face-painting for the kids, some guy in a tuxedo who gives out roses to the moms, and for the dads stuck waiting in the face-painting line, beer prices that are just above those at your local VFW post.

*Marketing 101: the large beer cups have an ad for an OUI lawyer.

*The Rox sell the same hot dog as every other ballpark: snouts and entrails in a casing the color of a traffic cone. This is OK, since they don’t charge you for a Chateaubriand. And for someone who grew up at Fenway, it’s unsettling to have concession people be nice to you. I’m used to the guy who slaps your money down on the beer-soaked napkin in order to turn “your change” into “his tip.”

*I don’t think the players at this level have any expectations of making it to the majors. I think they’re just trying to play ball for as long as they can because real work sucks. I’m no scout, but as talented as these guys are, I’d guess that the difference between the Major Leagues and the Northern League is equal to the difference between the BSO and your third grade recorder concert.

*T-shirt of the night goes to the teenager in the wheelchair who was wearing “Sarcasm: It Beats Killing People.” That’s the kind of triumph of spirit they should be awarding ESPYs for.

*What are people thinking? I saw a kid game wearing a Mark Bellhorn #12 shirt. Why Bellhorn? Were the Graffanino shirts sold out? Where was the kid’s dad during that purchase? Doesn’t he remember all the people in the 90’s stuck with Phil Plantier shirts?

*I saw my first ever Red Sox tattoo. I love the loyalty, but there’s one guy hoping they never change their logo.

*The Rox like to put smart alecky things on their menu boards like “Eggs Benedict: served 7:00-7:15 a.m.” One lady told me she’s from St. Louis and was wondering if it was common out here to have “Sautéed Veal Medallions” at ballparks. Remember, St. Louis is a city where they still think Mike Martz and Tony LaRussa are geniuses.

*At the end of the game, every kid is invited to run the bases. Before everyone else, they sent a seven year old girl with crutches who hoofed it around faster than Doug Mirabelli could ever hope to. When she touched the plate, the crowd went nuts. I don‘t know your name, kid, but you’re my new hero.