Moderately Vigilant

$4.50 in 1983

It is the last day of the baseball season. At least for the teams not qualifying for post season play, the Seattle Mariners among them. It is lightly raining, what Native American’s called ‘woman rain’ back when there was no negative sexist connotation. We have seats eleven rows up between home and first. It is my first M’s game in four years. I used to go four times a week. Back when we played in the much maligned (and from a purists perspective, rightfully so) King County Multipurpose Domed Stadium, aka The Kingdome. 

We sit in the outrageously expensive seats and sip equally outrageously expensive red wine. Over the course of the first five frames we told our stories from the good-old days of Seattle baseball, with the Rainiers and Pilots even getting a few mentions, nods and my-oh-my’s. 

Jim Bouton, Alvin Davis, Juilo Cruz, Gaylord Perry and Gorman Thomas were offered up as trivia questions as were Mark Langston, The Big Unit and of course, The Kid. Ken Griffey Jr. Number 24.  

My eyes follow the graceful arc of a foul ball past the huge video scoreboard in right field and I glance at it in the way I was taught, ALWAYS know the count, the inning and the score. In times past, when real baseball was played out of doors and on real grass, this crucial data was updated in real time and abbreviated by simply R - H - E. If space allowed a scoreboard might also include LOB. These of course indicating the Runs, Hits, Errors and Men Left on Base. Those key stats being the necessary numbers immediately allowing everything that had preceded to make complete and perfect sense. Because baseball, even with all its shortcomings, is perfect. 

I release my observance of the foul ball after a mezzanine muff and sweep a scan past the scoreboard once more before returning to the pitcher and his pre-pitch ritual. 

Immediately I snap my head back to the big tally board to see if I did, indeed, notice something amok. And I did, almost saying WTF aloud with my incredible discovery. There was something new there, a column with the mandatory acronym above the number six for both the home and visiting teams.

Not wanting to appear ignorant, I started to work out the possibilities in my head. MV. MV. MV. Some silly local promotion including the nautically named local nine? Number of Marine Vessels operated by each team? How many Mountain Vistas? Who was Most Valuable? 

An inning goes by. No runs, no hits no errors. And apparently no MVs either because that number was stuck on six. 

Another inning passes and now I am heating up. ME, of all people, stumped in baseball trivia in front of a home crowd? Preposterous. 

So I nudge my pal with an elbow and point out the oddity. She looks at it with furrowed brown and immediately returns an ‘I have no idea,” response. I can see her inner wheels in motion as she too goes through the progression. MV. MV. MV. Moral Victories she finally asks with a grin.

I have baseball stories enough to fill a commercial tuna boat, but there I sat, totally stumped. 

Sitting to my right was a Little Leaguer and his Dad. The kid was watching the live TV feed on his iPhone and Dad was an obvious fan of the game. I noticed that they were both chuckling. They were chuckling at our conversation. I turn to Dad and say smiling, ‘You know, don’t you?’

They both nod heads indicating the affirmative. My friend and I crane our necks closer towards them because the punch line, with us as the fools, the joke on us, is about to be delivered like a bases-loaded, two-out, three-two fastball. 

It’s a new rule this year Dad says, and Junior jumps in to finish as closer, it stands for Mound Visits. 

Each team gets six. MV. 

I sit back in my outrageously expensive seat and take another sip of my outrageously expensive red wine, moderately vigilant.