MLB

I Have No Voice, And I Must Scream: The “Most Exciting Night In Baseball History” Firsthand

North Florida forests don’t look like the forests you’re used to, forests that grew organically, thick with brush and different flora organisms of different ages, different heights, the haphazard arrangement that lends itself to metaphors. North Florida forests are planned, tightly aligned rows of Pinus elliottii, the slash pine, trees that eventually become Georgia-Pacific paper products.

Ryan Adams is not from North Florida, but his musical aesthetic is similar to that of our native son Tom Petty, and thus Adams’ music is well-suited for a drive through paper tree plantation land. The convertible top down, speeding past trees whose alignment allows you to occasionally see straight through to the prisons or schools or farmhouses miles in the distance, Adams singing:

…I ain’t ready to go. I’m never ready to go. Let it ride…

I open my voice to sing along. Nothing comes out. I may be on FL-121, but my voice is still bouncing around the catwalks of Tropicana Field, catwalks that suspend the roof in a manner that was state-of-the-art when architects designed it in 1982. It’s my second experience of being voiceless in 24 hours, the first being in a virtual manner; that same roof, and the walls around it, rendered me silent in this manner:

I am a prolific tweeter, which is something of which I’m neither proud nor ashamed. The silence imposed on me by the Tropicana Field architecture meant two things: first, that I’d actually have nothing on which to focus but the game unfolding before my eyes and the ones unfolding on the Trop out-of-town scoreboards, and second that there’d be tweets I would have tweeted (and indeed, actually attempted to) had I been able.

>>>NEXT: What I would’ve tweeted, and being comforted by pulled pork nachos.

Pages: 1 2 3