Death of an alter ego can steal your breath and freeze one’s mind in a state of gray until the soul of your imagination becomes trapped within a cell of confusion. The anger that I should’ve justifiably felt as a method of self-preservation frozen, stifled by the cold that shut me out like a dog on the porch to gaze from the outside in at the warmth of a family celebration. My heart like a pinball bouncing off bumpers of love and hate until everything went tilt and my flippers went limp. My arms ripped from their sockets in the tug of war between what I had meant to many and what I had become to a few. And as I walked away I could hear the death knell being wrung.
I paroled from prison for the last time in the year baseball went dark and the month the fall classic was snuffed out. Behind the sterile confines of a prison wall where all are dressed the same and numbers are given where names used to be, baseball had become my Individuality. A passage through the strategy and tradition to make sense from the senseless situation that had become my life and although stuff came at me like high heat to the dome I was being taught to slow it down. The strike like a crack in a mirror, although bleak complimented the perfect game for its imperfections like a reflection of life itself, my life. Tears will be shed and miles of smiles spread all in the wonderful game that is baseball.
I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on her and with willful malice did open my nostrils to their full expanse and glutinously took in a deep eternal whiff of her serenity. “Watch the future pros right here in your own back yard” said the flyer that taunted me from my desk top Christmas 2004. On March 3rd 2005 under the partly cloudy dusk in the sky beyond the trees, the sweetness of the grass in the night air, silence was settling in with the fog. I sat in awe of this coming together of senses. The field had become the most beautiful painting to ever grace a canvass improved only as the players took their positions. I took a cold snap from my thermos and cracked a bag of seeds to commence the interruption of silence followed by the pop of the first pitch into Wag’s glove. A choir of chatter irrupted from both benches like a sound track to the night and I thought some day my ashes will be spread over this place and my soul will come to rest here.
A deal was sealed on that day, an unwitting alliance of things to be spawned. Growing like an avalanche season after season, I put volume where there was once none. A bond of brotherhood was growing between me and the club that would soon be heard across the nation. These bonds were forged in the terraces amidst the cold fog with 100 friendly in tow at best, lashing out until the last out took my last breathe. And in the dank darkness of the Mesa structure after midnight waiting in support of a team that went 0 for 4 on the road or a coach that hit the 200 win mark as an Anteater with a 1 and 2 weekend to conclude a season. A sense of pride brewed that could only be courtesy of God himself and when on the road we proved it aint the size of the D-1 program in the fight, it’s the fight in the D-1 program. SuperFan was born as the drum of Upstarts banged for my road dogs.
My pride in the ball club grew every time I was allowed to pull a tarp out with the team or was allowed to visit with team in the clubhouse or the bus after games. The drive to see these kids succeed accelerated with each moment in the cages after practice to watch a dedicated few take some extra hacks. I floated on air when they asked me to shag fly balls with the team as they ready for battle in the 2009 NCAA Regionals and my heart skipped a beat when I was honored with throwing out the first pitch for Ants vs. Eaters Fall 2009. I felt the urgency of post season berth gathered with the team in the clubhouse for the selection show 2010. Above the clouds proud to be a part of the team, sitting with the rookie pitcher who would later be drafted 40th overall when our name was called. Even more important was the players that all took time out to reach out and touch a brother with game mementos, signed random pieces of instant memorabilia or just some conversation about the game we love.
With this adulation grew a greater feeling of responsibility to promote the team in a way that would kick down doors and introduce the multitudes to my ball club giving them the fire they so defiantly deserve. I kept up with the team year round, informing as many that would listen, of the exploits of Eaters past, present and future. My goal was to have energy surround the team all year so when season came the house would doth rock and ignite the spirit of those that put so much into the game, those I call brothers.
I began to follow the Eater Baseball history as though world peace were at its balance and in so pursuing created relationships with the legends of Anteater Baseball. These relationships both illuminated a magical Cornerstone of the program for me to see and ignited me to shine a lantern on this bigger than life history and not to let it die in the darkness under the stairs of the press box. A vigil of the record books was taken offense to but personal feelings don’t matter when it is someone’s legacy.
Like it or not my role was growing, neither through self-appointment nor administration selection but because of the need for someone to step up and do it. No longer would I just be a loud voice in the stands but a sentinel for the culture of the club. I have made and placed signs where signage is due. I have commemorated our dead and brought the brand to Little League and High School programs in Orange County in order to bring talent home. I have done all I could to bring Eater Legions together through food and laughter and I have stood in the face of the enemy and said without hesitation or concern, “Thank God I am an Anteater”
Somewhere along the line a knife was inserted into my back and soon after another and another and yet another. At first they came relatively quick and painless and rather petty. Small things I used to enjoy doing were taken away. Not with diplomacy but through childish spiteful knocks. You see the young little leaguers like to go chirp with Superfan and you send goons to check tickets; but not before they sat in every section in that ball park without ejection. Oh my land, the Diamond Darlings are sitting with Superfan during lulls in the game in order to create some enthusiasm for the team as a team of fans, better inform the administrator in charge of them to cease and desist any contact with Superfan. How about a young kid who can’t find a partner for the ‘bat twirl’ so he chooses Superfan and has they are both waiting for a break in the innings to have their time in the sun an administration 911 takes place and immediately the event is canceled no explanation given. None was needed. Staring down from the suite of the Newkirk Pavilion, a rotund man with a pointy Hitler mustache was, through money and power, purchasing a public institution.
These types things begun to increase with every season, in 2012 I was issued a 1 game suspension for over-celebration by whipping the net viciously during a gut wrenching come from behind victory. I was not allowed to return until I wrote an apology letter to the security staff. When I returned I was given a big list of things I could no longer do and a new title ‘ordinary fan’. This did not discourage me nor did it deter me from my mission. I am very grateful that events that followed such as the 5th no-hitter, the UCI Saves record and the defeat of the #1 National Seed in the first round of the NCAA’s took place on the road where pageantry for heroics are tolerated and the impact of history being made bends rules.
It was the fall of 2013 when I realize my ticket is punched for the end of the line and I cannot run, I cannot hide. The confrontation-bound train that had been gaining momentum with every season was now on a runaway course heading for the way it is not the way it was and I was left alone at the wheel. An event security person had warned me that things would be different for me in the 2014 season leaving me with the impression I was a colt that would either be broke or turned to glue. I say to hell with any power that beg your knees to bend for you may treat me like a dog but I will not lick my nuts and god damn, like a man, I will take a stand.
2014 broke with great hope and anticipation for the team. The Captain had returned home to forge a new mentality and a head coach was on the verge of a career milestone. 1000 D-1 wins doesn’t come easy and the fact that you’re doing it in a UCI uniform makes it an Anteater community thing. Individual accolades in baseball are fulfilling but unobtainable without your team and lack prestige without the fans to celebrate them. I was present for 800 and 850 and have the signed tickets to show for it. With 900 we went a little further with signs and post-game on field congratulations. I did the same for the 1000th win but it had an entirely different outcome.
The heightened police presence at the ball park seemed overkill and something that I had not seen in my previous 9 seasons crossing that gate. The antagonizing stares and accusatory comments from some of them posting up deep atop of my section made me feel like I was being nailed inside a coffin, alive. A life I had loved so in a place I called home was now a dark box and the sweet air that had once filled my lungs I now had to gasp for. One of the UCI police was overheard saying ‘he was told by superiors and the A.D. that they were to crack down on Superfan with prejudice’. He was further heard saying he had a feeling he would be the one to bring an end to Superfan’s days at the park. Funny thing, he was the one. Just goes to show you the power of positive thinking. Although I had received permission mid-game to duplicate the congratulations we had with the 900th Win it did not matter. Although there was no celebration planned by the school and yet another historic event that impacts all that follow the program was in jeopardy of going the route of the National Title banners in right field. Me, my permission and my sign were deemed a detriment to the University and the baseball game that had long ended. In spite of being told by the head coach that it was ok for me to do what I did they lowered me down into a hole in the ground and begun to throw dirt over my wayward screams for justice.
“There are many slickers here among us that are all dressed up in suits and ties. But don’t you show your pain, Lord in front of them ‘Cause if you do you kiss yourself goodbye, alright”. The words of the immortal legend Mr. Ronnie Van Zandt coursed through my veins as I released my defiant soliloquy my pain bleeding out as anger escaping through the portal of frustration. Too many times had I went to extremes in commemorating and celebrating important events in Anteater Baseball lore only to be shut down like a trench coat pervert in a park. Crushed, by finding a sign I made to bring attention to the National Titles, since the school banners were no longer hanging, torn down and shoved under the stairs of the press box. Was it the statistical facts and the acknowledgment of history on the sign that caused you shame? Was it the school colors represented on the sign with custom mixed paint or was it just too ghetto for them, I don’t know. So here we are another sign with that same paint marking a mile stone in a rated G respectful manner. No belligerent field rush at the end of the game, no lack of communication from my side just a salute from the stands and when the teams left the field a phantom picture was taken that I will never see. I can’t explain why a picture showing two men smiling and shaking hands would be viewed as contempt by others.
After K-Day I did try to return to the Cic but there was a trap that lay in wait for me. Perhaps a way to antagonize me into conflict or just to humiliate me, either way it was unnecessary. I have been a season seat holder for many seasons; there have been countless communications between us namely several phone calls with the Senior Associate Athletic Director and myself. As to why no notice was given pertaining to their disciplinary actions or intent after two weeks draws the only conclusion that confrontation at the gate was what Paul Hope and his goons wanted. Farewell to the gates from the sting of a dear friend’s blade done in true dramatic fashion. I want to be clear; I will never forget the pain and humiliation bestowed upon me that day. Painful as it was, it was also eye opening for it showed me the true fabric of the people I had called family. Although no resistance was made on my part to vacate, the campus police felt it their duty to follow me out to my vehicle, casting an ugly shadow and interfering with the good people that stopped me to express concern.
That day and in the months the drama would unfold I would get a good measure for the depth of honesty in my Eater Legions. It was a cinch to hang with me when times were good but I will always hold dear the friendship of those that stood for me and with me at this time. Those that risked backlash from the school in order to stand up for what they believe to be right, placing calls to the administration and speaking to the press with or without the cloak of anonymity. Specifically, one that picked up a movement put it on a shirt then packed up her bags and hit the road with me. I am also grateful for the covers being pulled on the self-preservationist attitude possessed by a few either too scared to step up for a friend when it is right to do so or because it is not in trend to do so. And as they walked on by everything went black.
I called it the ‘Farewell to the Fugitive’ tour and the theme was Carnivale. After some of the anger subsided I came to the conclusion that me and that ball club had been together since the first day of fall practice this season and every season of every one of them in every season they wore the brand of UCI, including three of the coaches. No one would stop me from seeing it out; I took to the road igniting laughter and loudness in ports near and far in the cause of the team. Home may have turned silent like I had been told but the road was raucous. Raucous but a good time was had by one and all and the farewell tour began to gain interest. First, from the likes of Big West Umpires, hardcore fans from other clubs and the ball players on the other side of the ball that I shared a mutual respect, then subsequently picked up by bloggers who spun words of wisdom on my behalf. Like a beacon from the past a voice emerged that became an advocate on the behalf of Superfan and the reinstatement movement was born and lit up Twitter. This was not the first time this man had stood up to the administration of UCI on my behalf, his pen has been a weapon in my defense and in honorable mention of my mother’s passing in New U articles and I am grateful for his persistence.
Momentum of the movement was now substantial and moving at a great rate of speed, the train was now rolling downhill and the driver no longer had control. The story was picked up by two prominent newspapers at first then more would follow until it was heard as far as London through The Daily Mail. A ground swell of support echoed from far and wide from friends and strangers alike, like a tidal wave that took my feet out from under me, leaving me touched and breathless in awe of the spirit of unity. All the press merged with all the caring voices that risked backlash to speak out on my behalf not to incur revenge but to open up dialogue that could lead to resolve. Not to ignite with spite but to reunite me and my role with the club. No malice was displayed by any member of the press, those that testified or me but it was not met with the same intent. While I interviewed with the Wall Street Journal in the streets outside Blair Field, the UCI head coach was taking time out of his duties to call parents and warn them of their participation in my cause also informing them I was to blame for the recent slump of the team. Throughout the post-season run the donors and administration seemed to take personal the attention I was receiving. I did not solicit any of the newspaper articles, it was the school’s initial stance and closed mouth tactics that led to the scrutiny. If this was not the culmination of a plan set in motion several seasons prior between some donors with heavy influence and the current administration then everything would have been above board from the onset. A disciplinary action rightfully administered and in public view with nothing to hide. However this was a plan to turn a very popular figure at the ball park into some sort of pariah by antagonizing me into doing something in a rage of anger so I could be permanently swept under the rug like a homeless family member they no longer wanted to be associated with. I gave them something they weren’t expecting, a fair fight, too bad they don’t fight like that.
In spite of the season ending slump my brothers were selected into the NCAA tournament in the Corvallis, OR. Regional as a 3 seed destine to beat the number one ranked team in the country and move on. Men who I have statue-ized in word and spoken lore, stepped up on my behalf in the cause of raucous support of the team and lifted me up on their shoulders aiding me with my expenses; The UCI Baseball Alumni stand on even higher ground for me because of their convictions. Tickets for this event and for the Super Regionals were kept from me but with the aid of an Italian girl I did gain entrance until the administration cut me off from those I called family.
The Oregon series was likened unto a perfect storm. We, has a legion were once again in the underdog role, a role we have always thrived in. Those that made the journey were for the most part those that had been there all along bringing with them the spirit of those that could not make the trip without burden. Missing were the pink hats the ‘let me know when you’re in the spot light and I’ll show’ fans, later to appear in Oklahoma and Omaha. The bonded by fire feeling circulated through the team, the fans in the stands and the ones watching from their TV’s. Riding the high of a modern day Icarus on the winds of an Anteater stand we touched down on the hallowed diamond and together team, family and fans we rejoiced in our comradery and the uphill battle that had been fought and won by the team that wouldn’t quit. When all points of the storm came together I could swear this was the pinnacle of my Anteater experience. It was also the last series to which I would ever feel a part of the ‘Eater family again.
On to Oklahoma were the end result for the team would gratefully be the same as Oregon. My war however took a dark turn. Not from the Good Pokes people that were above and beyond in their respectful welcome of me and my antics, but from the Kool-aide that seemed to be served in a certain bar before game two of the Supers. A man has his own ideas of dignity and integrity and lines that he will not allow be crossed. I do not care if your name is on a building you will not scream at me like a child, insulting me in order to gain favor with opposing fans. I was good enough for you to request pictures with arm in arm in the past but not good enough for you to talk to me privately first before you cross the line. If you possess the balls to confront a man disrespectfully at least have the guts to resolve it between the parties involved. This goes for Borowski as well, you both write checks with your mouth that your asses can’t cash, unless you flash the cash, using your influence and power to manipulate the strings of an administration that is already morally and loyally bankrupt. Newkirk your name is on the side of a building at Anteater Ballpark but that night in Oklahoma your name was on the back of an Oklahoma State jersey. I would wager good money after bad to say I dedicated a greater percentage of my net worth to UCI baseball then any donor, not for the motivation of a tax shelter but for pride of the team. And although my net worth may resemble lunch money to yours, my impact was felt in ways yours never will. As a result I had to scalp a ticket from an Oklahoma fan in Ok territory and swapped for one in the UCI section. As I sat there amongst people wearing the same color as me I couldn’t help the feeling I would have felt more welcome in the Orange section of the park.
On the misunderstood wings of redemption, this wayward Icarus uplifted now only by the winds of hubris, comes crashing to earth after being burnt by the $um and the Hope-less melting of the wax that binds. Any trip to the promise land should make you feel as though you have climbed to its peak over the roughest of terrain and Omaha felt that way to me and I am sure the 2014 Anteater Baseball club felt the same. Opening ceremonies were more than I could have imagined, the pride felt as my club was announced delivered me back to the sky from which I had just fallen. Despite the Kare and kindness I had received from a few close to me in the past this time I was alone separated from the home town folks by something I can only describe as quarantine or yard dog syndrome. Still receiving the undying support of the baseball alumni and under the guidance of the Parm animal, I knew I had to leave every ounce of Superfans life in the terraces for the glory of the ball club.
Game 1 2014 CWS UCI vs. the University of Texas and I had a ticket. The ban on selling me a ticket was lifted only after I was turned down flat and had to remind the ticket office of the apparent untruths that were told to the O.C. Register in reference to my status with the program by a UCI administrator. The seats that they procured for me were on the top deck and near the foul poles far from the UCI section. It was time to bring fire for my brothers, the Anteater Baseball team, alone from the highest and furthest point from them if that is what it takes. The field burned from orange to oranger then Burnt Orange in our post-season run and in each case the result was victory for my upstart ‘Eaters. A whole group of strangers became friends and allies on that top tier that day inspired and infected by passion born through fire. Even the Texas family in my section recognized passion and did not confuse it with negative opposition thus befriending me in a way that almost brought me to tears two days later.
Joyous in victory and exhausted in the fulfillment of having stood proud for my club in the Valhalla of college Baseball, I spilled out onto the streets like a battered symbol of anarchy shaking hands and making friends to all that call baseball ‘baseball’ only because the word ‘love’ is already in use. On the 14th day of June 2014 the death knell did ring for Superfan not once but twice, stealing my spirit and plundering my soul. I stumbled upon a designated public greeting area for the teams as they boarded their buses back to the hotels. I filed in with all the other law abiding citizens taking my place in an orderly and lawful manner as prescribed by the local law enforcement. What I am about to describe should never be taken lightly in a land that declares to be the home of the free. While talking with friends I was singled out from an increasingly larger crowd by the Omaha Police and had my civil rights stripped from me right there on the street in front of God and everyone else. There is no petition against me in any court of law, no restraining orders issued against me in respect to UCI or any other person place or thing. I thought my judgment for displaying a sign of respect and honor was banishment from the grounds at UC Irvine, not from whatever public space we so happen to share. However, I was told that legal or illegal this particular cop would do what it takes to keep me from the team on the behalf of the UCI administration that had put him on this mission; which included him putting hands on me when the team began to load the bus. And history repeats itself with fascist institutions pulling the puppet strings of law enforcement.
The pain I felt as I walked away from the carnage was numbing, hardly even pain no more. A survival emotion surfaced that wasn’t really an emotion at all but more of an instinct. I was going to get a beer and a burger and all of the sudden that’s all that mattered. Replenished by the last delicious bite of that burger and my thoughts quenched by the last swill of IPA I settled up, bid later to the good baseball people in my company and hit the streets. There it was Eater Nation Station right there down town Omaha. I had heard rumors but there it was right in front of me and folks were inviting me in to take some pictures and talk some ball. No sooner did I snap one picture with some people I know that a school administrator came down on the scene by the powers vested to her by UCI and the California tax payer. Kicked out again, I walked away alone and a stranger to ‘Eater Nation and the final blade penetrates a thick layer of skin and bone and hits the heart with exactness.
I did, however, enjoy some good tailgating while in Omaha thanks to the likes of the good fans of Universities of Virginia and Texas alike. In fact I felt in touch with the entire culture of Omaha, spending time with fans from all over. The evening of June 16, a conglomeration of fans danced in the aisles to the Jackson 5, sang backup vocals to The Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil in encouragement for Evan Brock and in general turned the entire area of the ball park into Anteater Ballpark. It was at the very least, a resurrection for my soul and an exorcism of bad vibes. There are no words to describe the feeling of that many different jerseys, top and bottom deck, all routing together in the name of passion for my club. UCI fell to Vanderbilt 6-4 but I could have never been more proud of my road dogs as I was that night. Win or lose we fought like men angry and determined, we fought with persistence and urgency fueled by hunger, we fought like a team above all else.
I returned home in time to pick up the pieces of my life that was caught in the purgatory of the past season. For the first summer in quite a while I was a man without a team and any talks that were brought up in the newspapers never came. I listened for a call of rectification with an open ear but still not a sound. There are those in life that will use their power and influence along with their financial gain to hold others down by stripping us of material objects. I have learned a long time ago that the only thing of value to my life I possess is what I was given at birth and what I will take with me in death; my heart, my soul, my name. My name is what keeps my knees from bending, my compass through life; my soul embodies every living creature that ever touched it and live or die they will never leave me; my heart is my love and while you can take a community baseball park, call it yours and exclude me from it you cannot deny me the game of baseball that to which I love. When fall came and still no talks emerged, I sought sanctuary from the Cal State Fullerton Titans baseball team. They’re acceptance of me was made immediately and I am ever grateful to the team, the coaching staff and to the good fans for extending a fellow baseball lover the hand of welcome and opening the gates of a top notch program to likes of me without judgment or question.
After all the pains is exhausted, I leave like a thief not in the night but in the light of day through the revolving front door of giving and receiving, in possession of some of the greatest gifts a memory could hold. My memories are now stronger than gold, I am not rich but enriched, not great but grateful.
Keith Franklin
bruteforceandblankverse 