Everybody thinks they have a book in them,
or a movie. I know I do, or did, anyway. For
the longest time, I thought I’d write the
great American movie about how tough it
was adapting to life in the United States
for immigrant miners like my two grandfathers.
Most men of that era came here
flat-broke, and a bare few spoke even a
couple words of English. They were often
separated into camps of Greeks, Italian
or Slavs—each group housed in separate
ethnic camps and paid in scrip by the mine
owners who exploited them.
In the movie I never wrote, I planned to
have the immigrants learning to communicate
with each other in a tavern. A tavern
was where they all gathered and, when not
fighting one another, the miners would
have been ordering their drinks and paying
for them in a common tongue. But, the
tavern juxtaposition just didn’t cut it and,
besides, most of those groups only visited
taverns operated by their own kind.
I thought about scenes from that movie
for more than 20 years, not putting a single
one to paper. I didn’t know it, but the movie
had already been written and directed by
John Sayles. His movie was Matewan, set in
the same era as my own dream movie, but
in West Virginia’s coalmines, not Utah’s. In
Portland about 10 years ago, I met Sayles’
wife, Maggie Renzi, who produced Sayles’
movies (Lone Star, Return of the Secaucus
Seven, Men With Guns). I told her she ruined
my life by beating me to the movie. She
laughed, and we partied for three days
running. A few years later, I ran into Renzi
and Sayles in San Antonio, and I told him
the same thing. Then, I congratulated him
on solving the tavern dilemma.
In Matewan, the immigrants don’t learn
English in a tavern. They become acclimated
to America in the simplest, most
basic form, at the same place that has
unified generations of Americans: On the
baseball diamond. It was a stroke of brilliance
on Sayles’ part, and a natural setting
for the guy who also gave screen fans
Eight Men Out, the story of the Chicago
Black Sox scandal. My second movie
would have been Barfly, so it’s easy to
gauge the difference between a thoughtful
writer like Sayles and myself. Baseball
was a piece of glue in Matewan—that special
game, played on that special field,
upon which nearly all boys are measured
for a lifetime. Nothing is as American as
baseball—not apple pie, not the flag, not
even bashing Republican presidents.
I’m writing this column from the
Cooperstown Dreams Park, near where
Abner Doubleday
invented baseball,
and just down
the road from The
National Baseball
Hall of Fame. You
want baseball and
apple pie—visit the
postcard that is Main
Street Cooperstown,
a timepiece of what
small-town America
used to be. I’m surrounded
by over 20 baseball diamonds,
with a game being played in nearly every
one; 104 teams are registered in week 7
of the 13-week tournament series, held in
Cooperstown each year since 1996. Two
Utah teams are here, the Murray Spartans
and the Utah Black Sox (comprised of kids
from West Jordan and Tooele and, coincidentally,
co-sponsored by City Weekly).
I’m here with the Spartans, who currently
have 3 wins and 2 losses. Each
Murray kid has had the chance to be the
windshield and the bug—for example, my
son hit a grand slam and pitched a save as
Murray won two games on Sunday—cloud
nine. Monday, he gave up three homers
in the first inning of the game he pitched
as Murray got waxed in both games they
played—depression city. This morning,
Murray won and the kids are elated again.
That’s baseball—up and down—and never
mind that some of the kids they’re playing
against look like they could star in
their own Gillette commercials.
I was skeptical about coming here for
eight days of perceived babysitting. But,
if there’s a better place to be in America
right now, I’d like to know where that
might be. Besides the stunning countryside
of upstate New York, the whole acreage
of Cooperstown Dreams Park emits a
positive, energizing energy. Disneyland
Theme Park’s could learn a thing or two
about mop-up from these guys. Even the
most casual baseball fan would fall in
love with this idyllic, wonderful place.
And Dreams Park works like Matewan.
My son, and perhaps one more player, are
the only non-LDS kids
on the team. That puts
me in a religious and
cultural minority, too.
I had no idea what to
expect. But here’s the
deal: These folks—even
Grant—are near-perfect
role models for their own
kids. We care equally
about our kids, and we
cheer in unison for all
of our sons. The parents
have bonded in ways that wouldn’t have
occurred without these baseball diamonds.
These are a fantastic bunch of people, and
most of us wouldn’t have met if not for this
team. However, I remain mystified how
my new friends can become so silly without
alcohol to speed the process—I mean,
grownups doing cheerleading and break
dancing—but I’ll get to the bottom of it by
week’s end.
And, I’ll be an advocate of this concept
forever: I hope that back home we drop the
closed-loop of church leagues—LDS and
non—and move past the ward-house politics
that shape local high school sports. There’s
no denying it exists, and the outcome is a
bitter one. Sports should bring us together,
team rivalries aside, not separate us. If we
become split over something so natural as
team play, there’s no hope that we can even
pretend to get along as good neighbors. And
anything that so patently divides Utahns
only makes us all weaker.