Dear Clearwater,
I write today with a rare humility and even rarer pangs of envy.
It is not your pristine waters I covet, however. Nor is it the sandy Florida shores at which they lap.
They are undeniably beautiful, but with Grand Isle, Gulf Shores and Destin within relative arm’s reach, we in New Orleans have all the opportunity we need to get sand in our shorts.
It is certainly not for your food. I have eaten in your part of the world. I ordered fried catfish. It was delivered with a large empty bowl – “for your shuckings.”
Allow me to say: Oysters, yes. Boiled crawfish, yes. Barbecued shrimp, yes.
But I assure you, when prepared correctly, fried catfish have no “shuckings.”
Rather, my envy is rooted in the fact that, while most of us await the crack of the bat and the smell of freshly clipped infield grass – which, mercifully, will come in late March – you, as an East Coast epicenter for spring training, have been in baseball mode for weeks already.
Pitchers and catchers returned to you in early February, with hitters and infielders but a couple of weeks behind. You, lucky Clearwater, have been treated to full baseball games since the week after the Super Bowl.
Meanwhile, the rest of us have been left to wait wistfully, dreaming of peanuts (shuckings), Crackerjacks (no shuckings) and overpriced, watered-down beer.
I know what you are thinking: But New Orleans is not a baseball town.
That is where you are mistaken.
New Orleans isn’t merely a baseball town. It is a superb baseball town – historically so – and arguably the greatest baseball town in America without a pro team.
Just look at the attendance for the LSU Tigers, which last season led the nation in college baseball attendance – for only the 25th time since 1996.
Granted, the Tigers play their home games in Baton Rouge, not New Orleans. But the Braves are based in Cumberland – and the NFL’s New York Giants and New York Jets both actually play in New Jersey.
Geography, it seems, is what you make of it in matters of athletics.
New Orleans’ baseball tradition is nothing new, predating the Civil War. Its golden age, however, began in 1887, when the minor-league New Orleans Pelicans first took the turf at Crescent Park.
Those OG Pels later moved to Athletic Park, followed by Pelican Park – where “Shoeless” Joe Jackson suited up as part of 1910’s squad – and, finally, the fondly remembered Pelican Stadium.
(We shall for now ignore the 1977 reincarnation, in which a latter-day version of the Pelicans played for one forgettable season on the formerly zippered turf of the Superdome.)
Regrettably, only part of the city was allowed to enjoy the show in those early, segregated days. But even that led to a rich, if often overlooked, Negro Leagues tradition in the city – until Jackie Robinson finally set things right.
Younger fans will remember the New Orleans Zephyrs, who blew into town from Denver in 1993 with that name, coincidentally shared by the signature roller coaster of the now-long-gone Pontchartrain Beach amusement park.
Then came the Zephyrs’ name change, to the unfathomably ill-conceived “Baby Cakes.”
To this day, I haven’t the foggiest what a baby cake is. Perhaps it is a euphemism for “idiot owners determined to make a city fall out of love with their team so they can relocate.”
If that was their ploy, it worked, dammit. There has been no joy in Mudbugville for the past four springs.
And we have been lessened by it.
Some local baseball fans have fed their fandom in the intervening years by supporting the Houston Astros, given their proximity to New Orleans and the fact that the Zephyrs’ were once part of their farm system.
The loyalty of certain oldheads still lies with the Pittsburgh Pirates, in whose system the Pelicans played for nine years starting in 1948.
This writer’s MLB team of choice came more recently, when – after years of taking my now-grown son to ballgames – the kid returned the favor by treating me to a Philadelphia Phillies game.
The gesture alone was touching enough to win me over. That I was an unaffiliated fan, due to New Orleans’ barren baseball landscape, only made me more open to adopting the Fightin’ Phils as my team of choice.
It was cemented when the starting pitcher took the mound.
He was a former LSU Tiger. His pitch-perfect name: Aaron Nola.
If you see him around Clearwater, send him my best.
And tell him to steer clear of the fried catfish.
Sincerely, New Orleans
