No-Name Rain

It rained and rained and rained. Five inches in Arlington; the District was saturated and the streets flooded. The storm had no name, and lasted longer than the last one that did- great greats of gray water that kept coming like the Monsoons that washed away Yongsan Garrison when I lived in Seoul.

I had foolishly agreed to accompany my associate Melissa to the ballgame (Dodgers) downtown at National’s Park. She got the season ticket package and hangs out at the home games. I have arrived at that pleasant point in the baseball season when I am taking note of the action as we drive toward the end of the regular season. The Nationals are not threatening anyone, but they are not in the cellar, either.

The senior-circuit Phillies threaten to return to the Series in the post season. They have four starters with ERA’s under three, and win counts in the teens. They appear to be prohibitive favorites in the post season, but there is hope. My home-town Tigers are leading the AL Central and hurler Justin Verlander just notched his 22nd win, tenth in a row and became the first Tiger since Jack Morris to win ten straight back in 1983.

My pal Joe commented that with a healthy Verlander, a solid performance by 14-8 Max Scherzer, a short series, a little rain and manager Jim Leyland suggest to me the Tigers can get to the World Series like the Giants did last year.

So there is that to mitigate the rain-induced malaise. I knew going to the game would be a disaster. I was not dressed for it, since I knew the game was going to be cancelled, but the way Big Baseball works is that will not cancel a game before you have expended the energy to get to the park and are sipping one of their over-priced in time for you to simply go to Willow, where it is safe and dry.

Despite the grim warning of my younger boy- he traveled the opposite direction across the city coming from Suitland where he works now- the drive down was not bad. We parked at the Navy Yard, and with the amount of discretionary time available, decided to go to the Ugly Mug for a refreshing cocktail. They have a golf cart that delivers patrons to the field after a god warm up.

Stadium $8 beer, or Ugly Mug happy hour at $4, with 27 brands on tap? No-brainer.

We were between bands of rain, and did not get soaked as we walked. We plodded up M street past the old ceremonial entrance to the Navy Yard, and I marveled at the change in the neighborhood. When I went to The Industrial College it was worth your life to be out and about in this segment of SW-SE Washington. I volunteered at the Van Ness Elementary School nearby, a disquieting adventure into the goodness of teachers and the dysfunction of urban families.

I often wondered if my car would be where I left it when my hours were done.

The Marines have been here as long as the Navy. There is a carefully tended line of enlisted graves not far away at Congressional Cemetery that the Barracks people tend to. The tombs on the grand avenue of the dead have fallen to wrack and ruin, but not the resting place of the Marines.

We saw dozens of desert cammie-clad Leathernecks as we walked the five blocks up 8th Street, passing the intersection at I Street, which has become an adjective, as in “he is an 8th and I Marine.”

The term signifies parade-ground elegance and detachment from the mud of the real Corps. I think Ollie North disparaged Senator Chuck Robb that way, back at a time when either of them mattered.

Now, 8th Street is a hip destination with bars like Mollie Malone’s just up the block. People on the street. Women walking alone. Truly, a remarkable change.

Dave was at the bar when we got there and I brightened. He is one of my favorite people- bluff, intelligent, hard working and a vast success in our contacting world. He had attended a Conflict Resolution seminar over near Foggy Bottom during the day and had driven his amazing ride- a Porsche Panamera- across town at slightly less than walking speed due to the widespread panic in the District from the afternoon drenching.

Dave is not much for ostentation, and is as down to earth as you get. His one external manifestation of prosperity is that damn car, a 2010 Porsche Panamera.

Porsche’s whole concept with the sedan is a little outré, given the times, since it amounts to taking the two-seat Carrera and tugging out the wheelbase to make it a spacious four-door sedan. The Panamera is a screaming performance car, just like it’s two -eat cousins. The base engine for the 2010 model year is a 400-horsepower 4.8-liter V-8 engine.

There is plenty of room for four adults in the car, and more bells and whistles than you can imagine. Dave treats it like a regular car, driving it wherever and parking in the lots like  normal person.

Me, I find myself walking hundreds of yards to wherever I am going to avoid parking the Hubrismobile next to anyone with a DC license plate, but that is just the inherent paranoia of driving a car you can’t really afford. The Panamera rear seats fold down and you could get two bikes in there, if you didn’t care about scuffing the fine leather, which Dave doesn’t.

I am sure that his better judgment would have dictated just driving out I-66 and the Greenway to get home, but Satchel had left her phone and jacket in the Wunderkar when she escaped from the rain-soaked tailgate on Monday night with Dave, and he graciously agreed to come to the game and reunite her with her possessions.

The effects of the tail-gate adventure had lingered across Tuesday and right into the Wednesday workday.

As the sheets of rain came down, I listened to people actually talking about baseball, a refreshing change from the apprehension that the nutcases will do something to commemorate the anniversary this Sunday, or what the President or the Seven Dwarfs are going to say about the sorry economy.

I mean, DC is a football town, mostly. We did not have a Fall alternative in the years we were abandoned by Major League Baseball. Now, the baseball buzz is big in town, at least as big as the discomfort with the no-name rain.

The young phenom pitcher Steve Strasburg had pitched five scoreless innings in his return from the injured reserve in a rain-interrupted game the night before that did not end until 0200. I was afraid that this evening would turn into the same thing, and introduced myself to Lauren, the buxom blonde bartender, and ordered a Jack and Diet Coke to fortify myself against the elements.

Somewhere in the next four drinks, fried calamari and chicken tenders, the clouds opened again and monsoon rain drenched the streets. The game was canceled- finally- and everyone relaxed.

Satchel showed up in time for the game that wasn’t going to be played, and a grand time was had by all, unmarred by actually going to the field.

Dave graciously agreed to drop us at our residences in Crystal City and Big Pink on his way out to Loudoun County. His Porsche was still at the curb when we walked out of the Ugly Mug under our own power. What a change in the neighborhood.

We blasted across the District in the rain, across the 14th Street Bridge and were doing 70 on Washington Boulevard. I was safe and dry by 2030 at home at Big Pink.

It was enough to make me think that post season baseball was something normal, and that we had not been at war for nearly ten years and gone bankrupt. What a freaking car.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com