Dispatch from Idaho Falls

It struck me, flying here 1,300 miles, half of that suffocated by one of the smellier seatmates I’ve had the misfortune to know (watch out Tulsa; he’s headed your way), that one of the few immediately and persistently recognizable images from an airplane is a baseball field. No matter the season or how high up you go, no matter how far you travel in this strange country of ours, baseball follows you the whole way.

I told my Lyft driver that I’d never been to Idaho but liked the look of it already. “Yeah, Idaho Falls is a funny place,” he said. “For some people, they come here and say wow, this is such a small town. For others, it’s the big city—you’ve got a Costco, a baseball team, you know…” From my limited hours here, Idaho Falls is exactly the kind of town that would have an 80-year relationship with their team. Everyone surely doesn’t know everyone else, but you wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

I saw two other B’s fans who had made the journey, adding in stops at the Idaho Potato Museum and a gigantic roadside triceratops. This is how to do it: to use your favorite team to see more of the wonderful strangeness of the world. To pick up at a moment’s notice and make an adventure out of it.

I talked to a few Chukars fans throughout the evening, and they were all lovely. Two older ladies next to me behind the plate had come to most if not all the games this season. They kept trying to get me to buy a Chukars blanket to stay warm. I did not. I did however go to the team store to look and felt bad not buying anything, so my son will now have the cheapest souvenir they offer, the classic foam finger proclaiming me the Chukar’s #1 fan. I am not. The ladies kept telling everyone “not to trust me,” which is good advice.

The fans were lovely and lively, but the stadium was hardly full. This will be the B’s huge advantage back in Oakland. The Idaho fans were all surprised that I’d made the trip, and I never really had a good answer for them. “I love this team,” was the best I could come up with, “and all I want is more baseball.” I tried to explain that we’ve been through a lot as fans, but that you only can appreciate if you’ve been there. It’s not something I would wish on anyone, but it’s also now something that I cherish for us: it’s a part of our story.

And sometimes, we are right in the thick of that story. At Melaleuca Field, the players do/can use the same bathroom as the fans, and I’ll never quite get used to being at the urinal and looking over to see a Baller right before they run right back out on the field to make a huge play. A foul ball bounced near me on the concourse, and I gave it to a young Idaho fan. This you do because it’s the right thing to do (and I didn’t have to scour the field behind Raimondi for some to re-home to kids) and also because every once in a while, the camera is on you:

The Ballers fell to the Chukars 5-3 in this championship opening game. I’ll admit that I’m partisan—I’m always going to look on the bright side of the B’s—and I watched some of the game with your co-founders, vice president and general manager. They are as partisan as it gets. But nobody—not in the stands or on the field—seemed panicked. I think we are all glad to be here, but that’s not enough. There’s more to be done. Tonight, I think the Ballers will win. I think I will try the Chukar Klukar signature sandwich. One of these things I can control.

I think the most outlandish phrases in all of sports is a “team of destiny,” but I’ll be damned if these Ballers are not not a team of destiny.