Thirteen years and another lifetime ago, I watched UNLV play baseball. That was in the NCAA Tournament Sub-Regionals in Baton Rouge, La., at LSU’s Alex Box Stadium. I was covering the event, and what I remember most was, baby, it was some humid down in thar. The Hustlin’ Rebels couldn’t seem to get a grip, for real, as their attempts to toss the pill around the infield deteriorated into something of a circus act because of their moistened palms. If I remember right, we were there for three days and six nights and didn’t dry off until we stepped off the plane at McCarran Airport.
I met the great Fred Dallimore on that trip. Fred was the Rebel head coach from 1974-1996, and that NCAA Tournament -- where the Rebels were left in a puddle after going two-and-out -- would be his last appearance in a UNLV uniform. The Rebels were edged 7-6 by the Tigers (the eventual national champions) in their second and final tournament game as thousands of LSU fans whooped it up as if it were a football game and hated ’Bama was in the house. Freshly Las Vegan, I knew nothing about Rebel athletics then, though over time I would learn “something.” I was awestruck by the huge LSU crowds, happy and in most cases drunk devotees donning in the school’s garish purple-and-yellow colors. I still have a hat from that trip, now that I think of it.
Anyway, after the Rebels were eliminated, I asked Dallimore about the Rebels’ fan following at UNLV, a place I had not yet actually visited. I remember well his response: “We’ll never have fans like this. Never.” There were many reasons, mostly because LSU fans had been reared for generations to fight-fight-fight for all Tiger teams -- they’re not only nuts for football and baseball, but in the spirit of Pistol Pete, basketball is a pretty big danged deal down there, too. By comparison, UNLV remains a relatively new institution. It takes a lot of time and a lot of success to develop such an ingrained, manic fan base. That’s what I took from that experience in Baton Rouge. That, and a lot of damp clothing.
I had not seen UNLV play baseball since, until Thursday night, when I took in the Rebels’ game against San Diego State and pitching phenom (we still call them “phenoms,” right?) Stephen Strasburg. I sat flanked by two gentlemen employed as sports writers in our company, Ryan “Rhino” Greene and Rob “Rhino” Miech. The outcome hardly mattered and was never in question. Strasburg throws 102 mph, except when he’s throwing a wicked curveball at 86. This guy is the real deal. I’m reminded of what Nolan Ryan (who also humped it up at 100-plus) said about his own pitching success: It was all about the curveball. If that was working, it just paralyzed hitters, and Strasburg has that same nasty breaking ball.
Predictably, Strasburg struck out 13 in six innings for the victory, a 15-4 Aztecs pasting. UNLV managed seven hits against the 6-foot-5, 220-pound right-hander, who should be the No. 1 pick in June’s Major League draft and make more money than a lot of our hotel-casinos next year. But what I did appreciate about last night, aside from the company (cough), was that it was great entertainment value. I feel the same way about 51s games, in that you can take in an entertaining sporting event and not feel fleeced for the experience. In Strasburg, we witnessed a future superstar (jinx!), and the ticket prices are no higher than $7. Compare that to a Major League game, where $7 might get you a large pale ale or bag of peanuts, but not both.
And say this about any baseball game, you’ll see something you’ve never seen before. One time, while attending an old Las Vegas Stars game (back when the local PCL team didn’t succumb to inane nicknames and mascots), I saw Las Vegas’ Matt Clement hit an opposing batter with a slider. Not that rare, except this guy actually swung at the pitch before it dove into his right leg (the batter was a lefty and Clement a righty, is how that happened). Last night, it was a chance encounter with the Son of Shooty Babitt, one Zach Babitt. Indulge me: For six glorious weeks in 1981, I was a huge fan of Shooty Babitt. He played 50-something games for the BillyBall Oakland A’s of manager Billy Martin. Two things about Shooty: He sprinted to first like a gazelle aflame whenever he drew a walk, and on every base hit, he did a hook-slide after rounding first. Very slick. He blew a lot of bubbles, too, did Shooty, who helped the A’s to a torrid start in which they won 11 straight to begin the season and were 17-1 after 18 games, but he couldn’t stick with the big club. Yet, at Earl Wilson Stadium, wearing the familiar No. 3, was Shooty’s son. Wow. Rhino, seeming not to believe my acute memory of Shooty Babitt, actually looked up his stats on his handheld during one of the Rebels’ pitching changes. I’ll be damned, he said (or, at least, that was his expression), this Shooty Babitt of whom you speak actually exists.
A little Babitt offspring, a cool but not chilly night heated up by a future Cy Young Award winner (jinx!). It’s a good time at the yard, and somewhere Fred Dallimore is smiling. I’m sure he’s fishing, too, but he is smiling.
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