My destination today was Huntsville's Comfort Inn. This was the one motel I was actually paying full price for ($49/night), and it was probably the nicest place I stayed on the trip. That's really damning with faint praise, because there was certainly nothing exceptional about this Comfort Inn. Like virtually every hotel in the South, this one was very cheaply constructed (you can get away with that in a warm climate) and featured exterior entrances, with most rooms overlooking a small pool. They could have renovated an old Motel 6 and come up with a similar effect. The room was not unpleasant, though. Its only real problem was paper thin walls (with a badly patched hole in one place), but fortunately it was a corner room, and the one other room that bordered it housed relatively quiet people. The room was quite large, and it featured a refrigerator and microwave, and again a massaging shower head.
Something strange about both this motel and the Econolodge where I stayed last night was that while both places used electronic door locks, both had the key cards for each room made up in advance, with the room number written right on the key. I always thought that the whole point of electronic locks was so the lock could be changed repeatedly. Obviously they don't do that here, though.
It would be hard to find a duller location than the place where this motel was located. Immediately next door was the entrance to "Stonehenge", a gated condo community not unlike those with which California is overrun. Also nearby was a Holiday Inn Express, a La Quinta Inn, a Super 8 motel, a Ramada Inn, and a Budget Inn. Beyond that a bunch of car dealers separated the motels from various fast food places and convenience stores that were vaguely nearby. I also spotted a Walgreen's store that appeared to be within walking distance and set off toward there. It wasn't really that far away (though every strip in the South takes up more space than it needs to; there's a lot of wasted space between the businesses), but to get there I had to cross University, which was almost impossible. I ended up walking along the shoulder to the next stoplight, waiting over two minutes for the light to change so I could cross the street, and then back-tracking to Walgreens. I made it back to the motel and decided there wasn't much reason to set out on foot from there again.
I couldn't help but notice that my baseball playing friend was the main story in the Huntsville Times' sports section. The overly cute headline read "Biscuits Crumbled by Stars' Full Nelson", and the story noted that Brad had gone 3 - 3 at the plate yesterday, with a home run, a double, and an intentional walk. The headline referred to the opposing team, the Montgomery Biscuits--a team that had just this year relocated to Alabama from the Orlando area. I forget what the team's name was when they were in Florida, but it had to be better than "Biscuits"; indeed it would be hard to think of a stupider name for a sports team than "Biscuits". In these days of political correctness, though, a lot of the older sports names have been questioned, and many newer teams are getting downright silly names.
The Huntsville Times also noted that seven of the roughly 692 fans in the official attendance yesterday (the stadium seats 10,000) were "Nelson's buddies from Iowa". I didn't know exactly who was included in that group, but I could make some pretty good guesses. ... It was strange to think that Brad's classmates were about to begin their senior year in college. Since that group graduated, Brad is really the only one with whom I've had any real contact, and while he's been in professional baseball for three years now, he still seems very much like he did when he graduated.
It was bright and sunny around 6:00 when I left for the stadium. I parked (for an exorbitant $4 fee) and made my way to the "will call" window. Last year there had been a screw-up, and my name was not on the pass list when I showed up. Today they didn't even have the pass list there. That didn't matter, though. When I said "Brad Nelson", they just asked how many tickets I needed and printed a freebie without even blinking.
My ticket was for Section F, the same place where my complimentary seat was last year. "F" is a section right behind home plate that is mostly filled with starting pitchers who aren't throwing tonight). There was absolutely no one in that section when I arrived, and the usher looked very suspiciously at me as I made my way there. I flashed the ticket, and suddenly he became friendly on seeing I did indeed belong there. I dropped my stuff and then went out to the concourse to get a cheesesteak and some pop.
About fifteen minutes before game time the sky clouded over rapidly and the grounds crew (who had just finished watering the infield) brought out the tarp in preparation for rain. When it started sprinkling I made my way back to the concourse, where I encountered the crew from Garrigan. ... In addition to six of Brad's friends, the seventh person in the delegation was a college friend of (one of the guys) who I honestly didn't care for at all. The boy was from McHenry, Illinois, one of the "ex-burbs" northwest of Chicago that is connected to the city by a commuter rail line but is really more rural than suburban. The kid was already quite drunk, and he was loud and really quite annoying.
The Garrigan kids, though, were all very friendly and seemed genuinely happy to see me. They noted that Brad had told them I was coming, and that both they and he were looking forward to my visit. Whether that was entirely true or not, I don't know, but they certainly made me feel like I was a welcome guest rather than an old fogie twice their age who was crashing the party.
--And this trip was definitely a party for them. ... This was a classic college boy road trip, and these guys were making the most of it. I never went anywhere for spring break when I was in college, but I'd imagine that if I had the atmosphere would have been similar.
As we chatted it began to pour, and it quickly became clear that tonight's game would be a rain-out. Even on the concourse, water leaked down from under the upper deck. We killed some time browsing through the gift shop and then just hung around waiting for them to make an official decision. Eventually they did cancel, and we hung around some more waiting for Brad to finish up so that he could come out and join us.
Brad eventually came out of the clubhouse. He went out of his way to make me feel welcome and to thank me for coming. The kids discussed a number of possible places the group could go for the evening, and I wasn't sure just how I'd fit into their plans. I was very grateful when Brad chose a place all of us could feel comfortable. ... the Third Base Grill. I had heard ads for this place while listening to Brad's games on internet radio. The place is a sports bar, and they bill themselves as "the official post-game party of the Huntsville Stars". They serve both food and drink, with live music nightly. While I was toward the older end of their clientele, this was still a place that both the college kids and I could relate to. I don't know if Brad chose this intentionally as a place where everyone could be comfortable or if it was just somewhere he liked, but from my point of view, he couldn't have made a better choice.
* * * * *
I think this was just the second place I've ever been in my life that had a bouncer (the first being a dance club on Cedar Falls' College Hill). A hefty young man carefully checked IDs for everyone except Brad and me. Presumably Brad was a regular, and it was certainly clear to anyone that I was well above legal age.
I went immediately to the restroom and returned to find the group (together with one new person--the thirty-something man who dresses in the mascot costume at Stars games) gathered around three tables that had been pushed together. I was pleased to find the lone empty seat was right between Brad and one of the other Garrigan grads. Brad was the reason I'd made this trip, and of the group of his friends, Ben was probably the easiest to talk to. It was certainly more enjoyable than had I gotten stuck between the kid from Chicago and the mascot.
There were already four pitchers of beer on the table when I sat down, and the drinks kept flowing freely. I noticed that Brad presented the waitress with a card with the Stars logo and asked about it. Apparently the players get discounts at a variety of businesses; at Third Base Grill they get 50% off everything they order and can run a tab rather than paying each night. Given the discount and the rather high prices (about double what drinks cost when I was in college), it was only sensible that Brad should put things on his tab.
The discount definitely attracts the Stars' players. As we entered, Brad casually said "Hi, Tone" to a young black man who was walking out. The man was centerfielder Tony Gwynn, Jr., the son of Brad's childhood hero, and one of the "big three" prospects who were supposed to be the stand-outs on this year's Stars' team. (The other two were Prince Fielder, big leaguer Cecil Fielder's son, and Richie Weeks, who was the #1 college player a couple years ago; those three have stolen the spotlight from Brad this year-for which he seems mostly grateful.) Also in the bar were third baseman Chris Barnwell (Brad's roommate on the road), shortstop Ozzie Chavez, and a group of mostly Hispanic pitchers that just got called up to AA. While he freely admitted that he didn't really know any of them, Brad shares a house with the pitchers. He had leased the house together with some of his friends on the Brewers, who are pitchers. They were injured, and the new pitchers took their place in the house.
Also at the Third Base Grill was a name I recognized from both Beloit and High Desert, Johnny Raburn. ... He's an outstanding utility player (he's played literally every position on the field, including pitcher; in fact, as a gimmick in California last summer the Mavericks had him play every position in a single game, shifting positions each inning). ... Two of the Garrigan grads sort of adopted Johnny Raburn tonight. ... They sat across from him in the booth and let him reminisce with whatever stories he had of minor league life. ...
* * * * *
I had a nice visit with both Ben and Brad, and I also visited quite a bit with "Homer" (the mascot) and Johnny (who eventually came over and joined our group). Suddenly, though, the live music started, and it was soon too loud to hear much of anything. This was confirmed when Brad (who had not eaten since lunch) ordered chicken wings and the waitress brought him shrimp. ... As the music got louder and louder, the evening became increasingly less pleasant. I eventually excused myself, knowing that the group was likely to have a better time in my absence. I found out later that Brad left shortly after I did and Johnny left a little while later. Apparently the college boys partied with "Homer" all night long, though.
* * * * *
This was certainly not the evening I'd have planned, but it was enjoyable nonetheless. It was fun to pretend to be young for a night. I must say, though, I could never be one of those people who spends his life in college. I'm don't regret for a minute that I'm not in my twenties anymore.
Even with having celebrated the rain-out a bit too much, I was still up early this morning. I had some juice and danish at the motel and then set off for the day. ...
The light just west of my motel was for Alabama highway 53, a road that angles northwest from Huntsville to the town of Ardmore, which straddles the Alabama/Tennessee border. I was very thankful that I was driving out of town this morning. Highway 53 is two lanes, but it's a major commuter artery. The inbound traffic was bumper-to-bumper about two-thirds of the 27 miles from Huntsville to Ardmore.
I stopped for coffee and an Egg McMuffin at the McDonalds in Ardmore and then joined interstate 65 for the trip across southern Tennessee. The speed limit here is 70mph, and it surprised me that almost no one did any faster than that speed. I took exit #65 (which is more than halfway across Tennessee, just south of Nashville) and made my way past a run-on suburban strip to the quaint old town of Franklin. It would be interesting to go back to Franklin and spend some time walking among the lovely old Victorian homes and handsome downtown buildings. As it was I just stopped for gas and more coffee and then moved on.
My reason for coming here was to explore part of the Natchez Trace Parkway. The parkway is a long, narrow strip administered by the National Park Service. It features a two-lane limited access road that closely parallels the old Natchez Trace, one of the most historic trails in America. The trail connected Nashville with the town of Natchez, on the Mississippi just north of New Orleans. Traders often made a big circle, taking the Ohio and Mississippi rivers downstream, but then walking the inland route back north. I had explored the southern part of the Natchez Trace in Mississippi, but I had never seen the northern portion.
Franklin is about four miles from the northern terminus of the Natchez Trace. I didn't go all the way to the terminus, but I did get on before any of the points of interest mentioned in the park service brochure. I drove slowly down the road, stopping at almost every pull-out, and doing almost ten miles worth of hiking on the adjacent trails. One trail in particular preserved a long stretch of the original Natchez Trace. At places along it you can see how it was progressively widened from a single footpath to a road that could accommodate horse-drawn wagons. Another trail was very poorly marked; almost any clearing in the woods could have been the trail. Eventually I realized that someone had painted small white dots on the trees about every hundred yards that were in fact the trail markers. I walked from white dot to white dot, eventually making a big circle that took me back to my car.
It was fascinating how different the forest is up here, compared to what it is in Mississippi. In Tennessee the Natchez Trace runs through almost entirely deciduous forest, while it's almost all pine trees further south. I think it would be beautiful to drive through here in fall, and it was certainly pleasant in summer as well.
The weather couldn't have been nicer. The locals were again complaining about how cold it was, but I couldn't believe how beautiful the weather was. It was in the upper 50s and lower 60s most of the day, hitting a high of around 70 in the late afternoon. I couldn't have picked a better day to do some fairly strenuous hiking.
I followed the Natchez Trace Parkway back into Alabama, taking more than three times as long as I had to cover the equivalent distance on the interstate. I eventually made it back to U.S. 72 at milepost 2, just two miles from the Mississippi border. I drove east to Tuscumbia, Helen Keller's birthplace where I had stopped a year ago.
I stopped at a Jacks restaurant in Tuscumbia for a late lunch (or perhaps it was an early dinner) of chicken strips on salad. A year ago I stopped at a Jacks and wrote a very negative review in that travelogue. This Jacks was very pleasant, though. I think the chain is something like Taco John's; the different locations are highly variable. This one was clean an bright, the service was friendly (almost overly so), and the food was good.
Highway 72 splits into two alternate routes at Tuscumbia. I had already taken the southern route, so for variety I took the northern one today. From Tuscumbia I drove north to Florence and then east to Athens and Madison. It's probably about 75 miles from Tuscumbia to Huntsville, and along the northern route, it was basically one big strip (with a few downtown areas thrown in) the whole way. Huntsville, which is a little smaller than Des Moines, is by far the largest place in the area, but the combined population of dozens of little cities in the Tennessee valley is easily a million people.
The road through here is dreadful. That wasn't really a surprise, since almost every road in Alabama is dreadful. (The interstates are the major exception.) Unlike in Iowa, the highway engineers in Alabama never saw a need to bypass towns. Instead almost every highway goes right straight through the downtown area of every little town, and four-lane "express" routes become endless suburban strips. There are traffic lights everywhere, and people are forever turning off, which makes traffic crawl along through supposedly "rural" areas.
It was about 4:30 when I made it back to the Comfort Inn. I changed clothes and before long drove over to the stadium. There was a double-header tonight to make up for the rain-out yesterday, so things started an hour earlier than usual. I paid another $4 for parking (no refunds on the parking fee for rain-outs), claimed another free ticket, and made my way inside.
The Garrigan grads were sitting along the third base line, next to the Stars' dugout. I chose to join them there rather than sit by myself in Section F. ... I gather the kids had made their presence known all week long. ... All the workers in the stadium (if not the fans) seemed to know them by name. The workers seemed grateful to have some unfamiliar faces in the stands. Again tonight there were fewer than a thousand people on hand (the radio broadcaster lamented that starting school so early really cuts into attendance for the Stars), and most of them were also there for cheap drinks.
Brad's friends were included in almost all of the promotions between innings. [Two of them] performed the dizzy bat race (which, in their rather hung-over condition, they probably could have done without spinning around), while [another] participated in the "home run derby". That required him to hit three balls off a batting tee set up in the outfield near second base. Making one "home run" earned a T-shirt, two earned a cap, and three earned a $50 check. It was hardly a surprise that the top college player on his team (who has launched a couple dozen legitimate home runs since leaving high school) took home the check. When they threw T-shirts into the crowd at one break, they made sure a couple of them went to the Garrigan group. Most of the kids had already gotten T-shirts at a previous game, so they decided to give one of the freebies to me. On a whim I had them sign the shirt just like professional athletes might. I had Brad sign below all of them, and at the start of the school year I had the shirt hanging in my room at school with some of my other "Brad" memorabilia.
Both games tonight were basically pitcher's duals. After two outstanding offensive games, Brad was less spectacular tonight. He had a hit and walk and made several good catches, but I'm sure his average went down over the course of the doubleheader. Just as happened last year in Huntsville, we had a tie score at the end of a regulation game, so what was already a long night went into extra innings. It was honestly not the most exciting night of baseball I've ever seen, but I've spent time doing far stupider things over the years, too.
The biggest action in the night came early in the first game when first baseman Prince Fielder hit his twentieth home run of the season. That moved him past Brad for first place in homers on the team. Brad still leads the entire Southern League in extra base hits, but two-thirds of them have been doubles. When Prince is at bat, he seems to get a walk, hit a home run, or strike out.
Mentioning Prince brings to mind something else. While writing much of this, I've again been listening to internet radio, and just last night I found out to my horror that the 19-year-old Fielder recently became a father. Apparently they were passing cigars around the clubhouse in honor of Prince and his girlfriend (who I gather have no plans to marry). I forget the kid's name ..., but the very fact of its existence shocked me. A lot of Brad's teammates are family men, but they tend to be married guys in their middle or upper 20s. Having a kid at 19 hardly seems a reason for celebration-even if the 19-year-old is a millionaire. ...
That said, I will compliment Prince Fielder as a ballplayer. When I saw him a year ago in Beloit, he looked fat and slow. It was hard for me to see what the Brewers saw in him other than the son of a big league stud. This year he looked good, both at the plate and at first base. He's obviously worked a lot on his game, and he--like Brad--looked like someone that will be in the big leagues before long. Moving Brad to the outfield to make room for Prince seems to have worked out for both of them, and I'm looking forward to seeing both of them playing in the majors before long.
Of the big names, Tony Gwynn, Jr. also looked respectable. The player who still puzzles me, though, is Rickie Weeks. For a college all-star who some say is the Brewers' #1 prospect, he really looked bad. The guys I was sitting by in the stands played ball better when they were in high school than Weeks does as a pro. On this trip I saw Weeks make four errors at second base, two of which caused the Stars to lose close games. That really was no surprise, because whenever I tune into games, all Weeks seems to do is make errors. He's not doing much better at the plate, batting around .240, compared with the .270 average that both Brad and Prince have. His main asset at the plate seems to be getting hit by pitches; he leads the league and set a new team record in that category.
... Weeks ... was the Brewers' first-round pick last year, and as an incentive to sign they gave him a major league contract, rather than the minor league contract most players get, plus a couple million dollars as a signing bonus. ... All that gives the Brewers a huge financial incentive (many times the incentive they have with Brad or even Prince) to push Weeks along quickly and see him make it to Milwaukee as soon as possible--whether he really deserves to be there or not. On the other hand, all that special treatment doesn't really give Weeks much incentive to work to improve his game; even if he never is a good player, he'll still retire a wealthy man.
By the way, in a lot of what I read, I get the feeling that baseball for Weeks is all about the money. ... For instance, he's one of only a handful of baseball players with a shoe endorsement deal. It's not like Weeks is Cal Ripken or Frank Thomas, though; he's a minor league player. Every pro player can't help but think about the money (Brad loves the game, but it would be foolish to think that "love of the game" was the reason he chose to play professionally), but money is all I ever seem to hear about with Weeks.
... When Brad came up next to the dugout after the game I ... pushed my way past the kids and said I was looking forward to seeing him tomorrow. The kids would do whatever other celebrating they did on their own, because Brad would also not be joining them. He had to get to sleep early so he could get up to be on the team bus for a 7am departure. I made my way to the exit as the Algona boys said their goodbyes. ...
I got up early today, left the hotel quickly, and then promptly proceeded to waste quite a bit of time. First I tried to find a news box with the Valley Planet, Huntsville's free local paper. According to ads on internet radio (my main source of information about Huntsville), all summer long the Valley Planet has been doing features on the various members of the Huntsville Stars. The early August edition had a feature on Brad. I had read the feature online, but was hoping I could get a hold of a print copy. I eventually found a Valley Planet box, but unfortunately the new edition apparently came out today. Instead of Brad I got to read about his road roommate Chris Barnwell--an interesting article, but not the reason I had been searching for the paper.
Next I wasted a lot of time trying to find the little towns of Oakville and Five Points. Five Points is home to Jamie Gann, the only Stars player who is actually from the Huntsville area, while Oakville was the home of the black Olympic star Jesse Owens. I had no burning desire to go these places; they were just things to see on the way from here to there. Unfortunately Five Points is next to impossible to get to, and you've got to go there to get to Oakville. The towns are southwest of Huntsville, near the city of Decatur, but accessible only by county roads. I drove all the way through Decatur without once seeing a sign for either the appropriate road number or for Five Points. I tried to find the other road leading there from the west, but again had no luck. Eventually I figured it was pointless to just drive around in circles, so I gave up and headed back to highway 72.
I stopped again at that same Jack's restaurant in Tuscumbia. This time I had a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit (and the requisite coffee), and it was excellent. A year ago my Jack's biscuit was dry and ghastly (picture that biscuit the headline said was crumbled by the "full Nelson"); this one was soft and flaky, with crispy bacon and a tangy cheddar cheese.
I drove west to mile 2 and pulled off again onto the Natchez Trace Parkway. Today I completed my exploration of this road, filling in the gap between where I got off yesterday and Tupelo, Mississippi, the place where I had first gotten on the parkway years ago. I mostly just drove, but I did stop to hike two short nature trails. The most interesting thing I found out that "tupelo" is a kind of tree; the name must sound to a Southern ear like "Red Oak" does to an Iowan.
I got off the parkway at Tupelo and drove down U.S. 45, an empty four-lane highway that leads to the city of Columbus. Columbus is a fascinating place. Home to the Mississippi University for Women (founded back in the days when it was unusual for women to attend college, before they were the majority on most campuses), much of the central core comes across as a pleasant college town. The college is well integrated (probably the best integrated school in Mississippi, since there's not a twin college to accompany it, like there is with most of the state institutions), and everyone seems welcome to shop downtown. The rest of the city, though, comes across as just as segregated as it probably was a century ago. White people live on the north and west sides of town and shop on the suburban strip along highway 45. Black people live to the east and south and shop in places like "Dollar General" along state highway 69.
One fascinating site in Columbus was the Greyhound bus depot, which is just east of downtown on highway 69. I remembered from history classes and personal interest that the "freedom rides" of the civil rights movement (when black people first rode in the front of the long-distance buses in the South), went right through Columbus on their way from Birmingham to Jackson. The bus was just pulling into the station when I passed, and I couldn't help but notice that every single passenger on board--whether at the front or back--was black.
Southeast of Columbus, highway 69 is an absolutely dreadful road. The settlement here is typical of much of the South (though a bit unusual in Mississippi), a string of houses running along the main road, with another house every couple hundred feet. The settlement continues all the way to the Alabama border, where the houses give way to solid forest. People were turning off in driveways almost everywhere as I drove along, so even though the speed limit was 55 mph, I barely averaged 40 on this stretch.
At the border, highway 69 becomes Alabama highway 14. The road winds its way southeast through an area that is about as different from the Midwest as anything could be. The most immediately noticeable thing here is that everyone is black. We don't think of black people in rural areas up north. In Iowa you expect to see blacks in Waterloo or Des Moines, but beyond one or two families, but you'd never find more than one or two black families in a small town up north. If there is a minority population in small-town Iowa, it's likely to be Hispanic or perhaps Laotian or south Asian. Black people here live in cities, not in small towns. In the South, though, the descendents of plantation workers still live near their roots. Towns like Pickensville, Aliceville, Clinton, and Eutaw are overwhelmingly black. They're poor and remote, with far fewer businesses than equivalently sized towns would have up north. I had seen some towns like this in Mississippi, but most of them had been bypassed years ago with highway improvements. In Alabama, though, the "via vieja" still goes right straight through every little towns.
At Eutaw I joined U.S. highway 43, a much more important road. For the first fifty miles or so, this mostly meant it carried a lot more traffic, especially logging trucks that would slow to a crawl and cough smoke on every hill. At Demopolis (where I stopped for gas), the highway became four lanes. It still wasn't much better, though. As in Tennessee there is development along the road all the way across the state (which in Alabama means 350 miles of solid development). I was officially driving through one of the most rural, remote areas in the state, but I might as well have been driving through Ankeny or Burnsville or Arlington Heights (except that everything looked a bit tackier than any of those northern suburbs).
These long strips of development seem extremely common in the South, but I personally can't see the attraction to them. I suppose people must think that they have space; they aren't hemmed in like they would be in town. Instead they're a long drive from everything, and they have to pull out of their driveway right onto a major highway. I can understand the attraction to living in a city, and I can understand the attraction to living truly on one's own in the country. What I have never understood, though, why people would want to be part of suburban sprawl-particularly when there isn't really anything urban that this sprawl is a suburb of.
There were a few truly rural stretches along the highway, with fields of cotton and some salad vegetables. In one of these stretches I saw one of the strangest sights I encountered on this trip. Some farmer out on the middle of nowhere in southern Alabama had placed three billboards in his field, each bearing a single Latin word in a huge font. I don't speak Latin, but my knowledge of French and Spanish made it fairly easy to figure out that the signs said "ACTIONS, NOT WORDS". That's a concept I try to live by in my own life, though I don't pretend to always succeed. I just wish the politicians of both parties would take it to heart.
I followed highway 43 southward for the better part of 200 miles. The last few miles the area became truly suburban, mostly a string of chemical plants similar to what lines the highways south of Hattiesburg a little ways west of here. I joined interstate 65 at Exit 19 and soon after entered the city of Mobile. It was right at rush hour, and traffic was heavy, but it moved right along as I made my way down to Exit 3.
My destination tonight was another Econolodge. The brochure I had printed out from the internet gave a map and verbal directions that disagreed with each other. The map indicated that the motel was southeast of the interchange, while the verbal directions indicated it was northwest. I wasn't quite sure what to do when I exited, but I said a little prayer that I would find the place easily. It turned out the verbal directions were correct; the map appeared to have been drawn upside down. To get to the hotel, I exited and then immediately turned right onto an access road that I followed most of the way up to Exit 4. The hotel was actually closer to that exit than to Exit 3, but in heavy traffic it would have been almost impossible to get onto the access road from there.
There's a whole string of hotels lining the access road between Exits 3 and 4, and all were showing "No Vacancy". I found out later that many people had come west from Florida to escape the two hurricanes that were concurrently striking there. Mobile is right on the coast, and two days ago they were predicting one of the hurricanes would go right through here. It veered eastward, though, and now coastal Alabama was the evacuation center for the Florida panhandle.
I saw the Econolodge sign and turned off into a parking lot. I went to the door, which was locked. A young Asian man buzzed the door, and I went in and told him that he should have a reservation for David Burrow. He punched a few keys on his computer, and then frowned a bit. He said there was no record of a reservation in my name, and he was very sorry but the motel was full for the night. I quickly took out the copy I had printed out when making the reservation online, and he soon noticed what the problem was. Without realizing it, I had walked into the Best Value Inn (actually I think it's "Valu", without an "e") instead of the Econolodge. The two motels share a parking lot, and it's not well marked which one is which. I went next door, where another young Asian man had to buzz me through a security door. Here they did have a record of the reservation, and my $50 redemption card more than covered the cost of a king room. My second floor room had a delightful view of the Motel 6 and the Knights Inn, and I could just barely see the Hampton Inn and the Super 8 if I strained my neck.
It fascinated me that while the office had high security, the side and back entrances (the ones guests-and presumably criminals-would use to get to the rooms) were not locked at all. I made a point of getting absolutely everything out of my rental car, and I double locked the room door whenever I was at the motel.
Tonight Brad and the Stars were starting a four-game series against the Mobile Bay Bears, the team that had won the first half pennant in the division. It's unclear whether "Bay" is supposed to be part of the team name or the place name-that is whether the Bears play in Mobile Bay or whether the Bay Bears play in Mobile. Confusing this further is that the team's caps say "MB" (as in "Mobile Bay"), while the jerseys say "Bay Bears".
The Mobile Bay Bears play at Hank Aaron Stadium, which is just east of Exit 1 on I-65, barely worth the drive but entirely unwalkable from my motel. I found the park and paid $3 for parking (a bargain compared to Huntsville, and I could have used the parking pass to get a $3 discount at the Mobile location of Copeland's). I wasn't sure if Brad could put me on the pass list for an away game or not, but I walked up to the "will call" window and told them my name might be on the list. I was decked out in Huntsville Stars clothing, so it wasn't hard for them to figure out it would be a list from the opposing team. They asked who would have left the ticket for me, and when I said "Brad Nelson", just as in Huntsville the question became "how many do you need?" I quickly got a ticket for one of the few very few good seats in the stadium.
(CONCLUDED IN PART 3)
The background music on this page is the ballpark classic, "Cotton-Eyed Joe".