Day Three: Driving through West-By God-Virginia, John Henry and the Bluefield Orioles at home. Saturday's breakfast at  Bailey's in the Ramada Inn showed that Mountaineer cuisine is not the most famous product of West Virginia. In fact, it would not be stretching the facts to state that we did not have a decent - or even near decent -  meal in West Virginia. Lonesome Bob opted for the "Mountaineer" breakfast, which was two eggs, hash browns, sausage patties, biscuits and sausage pan gravy. Gardog chose the "American" which was the  same without the gravy - it was only 20 cents more to get the gravy, but Gardog said he'd pay the 20 cents not to get the gravy, but the problem wasn't the gravy it was the near lukewarm sausage, overcooked and utterly  tasteless, except for the hardened grease that hadn't been cooked out. Over breakfast we worked out our itinerary for the day, it included: a short round of golf, a visit to the John Henry Music Festival, and a double  header at Bluefield's Bowen Field (home of the best ballpark hot dog anywhere, according to hot dog and cocaine aficionado Doc Gooden).  With an unsatisfactory breakfast under our belts, we set off for a drive  to Pipestem State Park and hopefully some golf. The road - Rte 460 to Rte 20 - took us through Princeton, the opposite direction from our trip into town behind Nat Reese the day before, and we determined that Princeton,  though only 2/3 the size of Bluefield, was the real home of nightlife in Mercer County. We also cursed Nat Reese for not telling us of the Gospel Festival in an old theater on Friday....maybe he thought it was one of  those "dangerous" places. Route 20 took us through Athens, home of Concord College, and Lerona before we got to Pipestem Resort as the park is called. It was a pretty narrow and winding road, mostly in the  woods, but there wasn't much traffic and we could enjoy the views and the road. We didn't have high expectations for actually getting a tee time at Pipestem since it was about 12:30 when we got there. But our baseball luck must've been with us, because  there wasn't too much of a load on the course and we were able to get on within 15 minutes of arriving. After changing into shorts in the parking lot, we headed onto the course in a golf cart. Our golf games  were truly at their peaks, well at least for holes three and four; however, we did have respectable outings (only two triple bogeys for G.B. and an 8 on a par three for Lonesome). W

rode along the rolling fairways, some of the prettiest we had ever played, talking and taking in the sun and the vistas, only stopping occasionally (106 times total) to hit a golf ball. We  played just well enough and had a great enough time that Lonesome Bob began to talk about how he wanted to play golf at least a dozen more times this summer-- as if golfing on a suburban golf course some afternoon between  appointments has any relation to what we were doing on top of the Appalachian Mountains that afternoon.  After the dry ballpark in Pulaski on the night before, we were concerned that drinking was limited to moonshine  throughout the Appalachian Mountains, and that our parched throats were going to have to be satisfied by water. Much to our surprise Mulligan's Lounge in the park golf clubhouse was really a lounge by our standards and we quaffed a  pitcher of beer and dined on the french fries recommended by the bartendress. She seemed to have some affection for Gardog as she spent considerable time caring for his beer spill on the tabletop and slipped him extra ketchups.  Alas, she discovered that we were heading off to the John Henry Festival in Talcott and concluded that Gardog maybe wasn't the sophisticated northerner she had taken him for.  The drive from Pipestem past Bluestone Lake and  on to Talcott was the most beautiful stretch of road we took in the three and a half days of our adventure. Winding roads along ridges and down mountainsides made one realize why Howard Armstrong calls this state "West By-God  Virginia." Bluestone Lake was actually formed by a dam - not for hydroelectric power, but for flood control - and it looked particularly inviting from the perch we had some five hundred feet above. It is Y-shaped and is bound  by steep tree-lined gorges, almost fiord-like except that the thick deciduous forest was obviously Appalachian. After we passed the dam we crossed the river at Hinton, turned on Route 3 and headed to Talcott. It's hard to imagine  people traveling through or anywhere within West Virginia, let alone build railroads, before the advent of the paved road. The switch-backs and steep straight-aways would've been impossible for a horse and wagon and not too simple  for a horse and rider alone. We did come across "Grandfather llow" a riding stable, that offered trail rides on the edges of the gorgeous gorges, but without defined trails it would present quite a challenge. We didn't encounter many cars and cruised easily and quickly through the winding and frequently breathtaking countryside. As we came over the top of a rather large hill and began down the other side we saw a red  train car and a larger than life statue of John Henry along side the road. Pulling off the road we heard fiddle music

rising up from the floor of the valley; we were right above the entrance to Big Bend, the famous tunnel that John Henry was working at when he died. A man who approached us  while we were checking out the statue wanted to talk. He was a West Virginian who worked the mines for a dozen years many years ago, and who has driven a coal truck since. He bragged that working in mines  was safe "if the fellows you worked with knew what they were doing." What about coal dust. we asked? He answered that he had just had a physical and only had 10% black lung.  Of course, the  ultimate challenge in this part of the world was the one that John Henry laid down about one hundred and twenty years ago: that he could outperform the steam drill jackhammer. His legendary struggle against  technology is akin to the reasons for this trip altogether; we were fighting against the latest innovations in baseball marketing and looking for some of the roots of American popular culture. And so we were  at the opening  of Big Bend Tunnel listening to some old-time pickers, fiddlers and railroad storytellers. Everett Lilly and Clear Creek Crossing was just finishing their the last  couple songs of their set as we arrived. Lilly and his boys were hot, playing some of the best bluegrass either of us had heard in a long time - or maybe it was just sittin' in front of Big Bend Tunnel that  made them sound so good. The next group, Lining Bar Gang from Buckingham Virginia, hadn't shown up yet and so we got to hear octogenarian and amateur historian, Roy Long, talk about his days as a railroad  man. Jimmy Costa, of Talcott, got up and played some solo fiddle and mandolin next. He put a great twist on "The Battle of New Orleans" and we were sure  that we were in heaven in West By-God Virginia.  The stage was a flatbed trailer with potted plants and a sound system juiced by a loud gasoline generator. The audience was mostly white  and mostly old; this was a group of people not stressed by the need for high speed internet access nor the need for Total Quality Management programs. Maybe their kids were, though, since there  weren't many under 25 years old

there, except for a few babies. We didn't get to stay long enough at the festival, despite the promise of a patriotic song and a gospel selection at the evening's close, because we had an  hour's drive back to Bluefield for the Orioles doubleheader with the Danville Braves. We had already determined that we would miss the first couple of innings of the first game, but we couldn't stay for anymore railroad music or  stories.  After our trip to Talcott and the John Henry Festival we were primed for more baseball. There is only so much beautiful scenery, music and hill country culture that one can handle without  getting another dose of ball. To get to the stadium we crossed between West Virginia and Virginia several times as the road meandered back and forth along the state line. We slid into Bowen Field in the bottom of the third in the  first game of the doubleheader the Baby O's were playing against the Danville Braves. We were on familiar turf since we had checked out the stadium during the day, before we left for Pipestem and points northeast. For $2.50 we got  to sit about six rows up from the edge of the field and easily less than fifty feet from home plate. Our view of all the action was unobstructed.  Anyway, even though we bought a scorecard, we didn't really know the players  since much of the action had already taken place. Because these two teams are affiliated with successful big league teams we expected to see some good, if still unpolished, talent. Actually, we knew many of the Bluefield players  from the night before in Pulaski and some of our favorites were on the field. Jerry Hairston had caused significant trouble for Pulaski with both his bat and his base running, so we were interested if this was a fluke or whether we  were observing a skilled ballplayer. Lonesome Bob's keen eye predicted that Hairston was the man to watch, but Gardog was more skeptical.  We had already seen that Appalachian League ball was still pretty raw - but that's  why we came to see it in the first place - and we witnessed more wild pitches, batters hit by pitches and throwing errors than one would see in Columbus in a month. The coaching was also a lot less sophisticated, giving the players  the opportunity to experience adversity and ticklish situations - probably to see how they react as much as to see if they could work their way out. So it wasn't too surprising when the first game of the twin bill ended in the  bottom of the seventh by the already tired and wild pitcher walking in the winning run for Bluefield. Since we had spent the afternoon enjoying the beauty of West Virginia we were really using the first game as a segue into a  serious baseball experience, which we had predetermined that the second contest would be.

Baseball at Bowen Field is just what we set out to find: an open air field with grass; a small yet pleasant grandstand; fans who came to the ballpark to see the game of baseball not  some sideshows; young ballplayers who really wanted to play (many with big dreams and some who just couldn't see doing anything but playing ball in the summer); sometimes good baseball, sometimes bad, but

always played with passion. Bowen Field was built in 1939, but the current concrete grandstand was constructed in the 1970's after a fire. The outfield fences are standard minor  league billboard advertisements, but beyond the fences and looming over all of the outfield are the tree covered mountains. It would be a monstrous stroke to hit a ball to the trees, but if one were hit there it would  certainly be swallowed up by the oaks and never be found. As the twilight came the trees faded into black and it was just the mountain staring at the batter and all of us in the seats.  Unlike the homogeneous  crowd of high country Appalachians that we saw in Pulaski, the fans in Bluefield came from many walks of life. Most likely this is the difference between the people of the towns of Bluefield and Pulaski; Bluefield seems  to have been the residence of some of the people who profited from the mines in McDowell and Wyoming Counties west of town as there was clearly a wealth and urbanity here that was lacking in Pulaski. Besides the  families that are the backbone of minor league audiences, there were teenagers who came to hang out and meet friends, an elderly husband and wife in Oriole garb, blacks and whites of all ages, guys who came alone just  for the game, businessmen, and girls who clung to the bullpen fence trying to make friends with the young studly pitchers. Just as in Pulaski, fans sat in folding chairs if they got to the game early enough to claim  one, or directly on the concrete of the grandstand, or in their own lawn chairs if they brought them. The box seats had plastic lawn airs reserved for them and had the name of the season ticket holders on a plaque  inside the boxed area. We were able to move into a box seat late in the game.  At Bowen field we encountered a fan unlike any other we had seen-- he had a large kind of dumpy physique, with a walrus mustache and  a booming non-stop voice. "Earl" kept a running dialog going with batters, pitchers, and umpires. Some of his patter was traditional baseball stuff "Big stick, now!" and "Way to look em over,  Jerry!" He knew all the players by first name. No matter the size of the batter, however, Earl begged and pleaded for a homerun from each hometown slugger-- "Hit the flag!" Lonesome  call-them-as-you-see-them Bob, no slouch when it comes to hurling his own responses at players and umps, was at once impressed by Earl and intimidated by his verbal onslaught. We did notice that there was a fairly large  circle of empty seats around big Earl, but no one seemed to heckle him back. Lonesome would have asked Earl for his autograph had he been around for the 12th inning of the second game.  Once again there was no  beer at the ballpark and despite Doc Gooden's claim that Bowen Field offers the best hot dog in any stadium, we found the dogs to be quite ordinary. The peanuts were great though. We were more prepared for the beer  outage than the last time and we brought a flask which we only needed to tap into twice in the 19 innings we witnessed.  The game itself was fantastic. Though the Orioles got two quick runs in the first and  added another in the third it looked like we were settling in for a pitching exhibition with eleven strikeouts in the first three innings. The Braves starter, 18 year old Ruben Quevedo, struck out eleven batters in the  five innings he pitched. The Braves fought back - they loaded the bases in the fourth and picked up one run and then added two more to tie the game in the sixth. It remained tied after seven, regulation for a  doubleheader in the minors, and sent us down for another hot dog. Man we could've used a beer about this time. Excellent relief pitching by the Orioles' Todd Freedburg (4-1/3 IP, 0 R, 2 H, 4 SO) and Bryon Embry of the  Braves (4 IP, 0 R, 2 H, 6 SO) gave the game a repetitive feel through the first couple extra innings, but in the 11th little 5'8" Marcus Giles of the Braves hammered one over the centerfield wall for our first (and  only) Appalachian League home run and the hometown fans were squirming in tir seats. In the bottom of the inning the O's Jerry Hairston hit a single, advanced to second on an errant pick-off throw, stole third and tied  the game on Luis Matos' grounder to deep short. As the hour passed one A.M., the time after which no new inning may begin and thereby signaling the last inning for this game day, the hometown boys won the game when  Australian catcher Andy Utting (who caught all 19 innings) singled, advanced on an error and again on a sacrifice, and then came in on Tom Martin's sacrifice fly to center. Click here to see the Bluefield scorecard Click here to see the Danville scorecard By the time we left the ball park it was after 1:00 AM and there weren't many other fans left-- a few high school aged boys and some other diehards. Growing weary  of single A minor league motels we decided to look for something a little closer to the majors. We even stopped at a Holiday Inn but we balked at the $95 price tag. So we ended up staying at the Brier, a place we  thought would be AA but turned out to be the sleaziest joint yet. This was the only place we stayed that had beer already in the room but, unfortunately, it was already open and warm by the time we checked in. Not  wanting to spend much time there, we dropped off our bags and went in search of a brew, which we found back at the hopping lounge of the Holiday Inn.  It must have been after 2:00 AM by the time we made it back  to the Holiday Inn lounge. Again there was a cover charge, and again we talked our way around it because we weren't a part of the Princeton HS reunion that was happening in the place and we weren't going to dance. Two  things were notable about what we saw in the bar. First, it was much more integrated than almost any social gathering that either of us frequent. There were a number of interracial friendships and couples as well as  everyone dancing together on the dance floor. The other thing we noted was that we didn't relate to the music: not only didn't we recognize a lot of it, but we also couldn't predict when one song was going to clear the  dance floor and another fill it. It was great people-watching; particularly the several couples shamelessly improvising the Lambada. We closed the place down.   On to Sunday Back to the trip itinerary Back to the Blue Suit Home Page