About six weeks ago, I suddenly realized what I wanted to do with my summer vacation: drive around the steamy-hot Carolinas with gas at $4.50 a gallon in a 10-year old Nissan Sentra with a bad muffler, an air conditioner that smells like something died in it (but only for the first couple minutes of use), and an engine that’s making a sound like a bird trapped in a tin can.

In other words, PURE AWESOMENESS.

Why, you ask, is this pure awesomeness? Because I will be tootling from ballpark to ballpark, bearing witness to the unspoilt beauty and unfettered fun of minor league baseball. With your help, and after many a happy hour of noodling around on the interwebs when I should have been doing better things, I have narrowed down my original list of 29 teams to a more manageable 13 contenders:

Greensboro Grasshoppers (A)
Hickory Crawdads (A)
Durham Bulls (AAA)
Asheville Tourists (A)
Greenville Drive (A)
Zebulon Mudcats (AA)
Myrtle Beach Pelicans (A)
Lynchburg Hillcats (A)
Tennessee Smokies (AA)
Chattanooga Lookouts (AA)
Johnson City Cardinals (Rookie)
Forest City Owls (CPL)
Fayetteville Swampdogs (CPL)

Like a big dork, I mapped out all the localities on this custom Google Map:

I still won’t get to all of these teams, but at least we’re now entering the realm of the possible. Any advice about pretty roads to drive, great places to eat, cheap places to stay, or ways to cut this list down a little more are, of course, appreciated. Leave ‘em in the comments or email me!

I was there last night for Jon Lester’s no-hitter. It was our annual company trip to Fenway. I was sitting way back in right field with about fifteen of my coworkers, and we spent the first five innings drinking beer and trading office gossip. Then we realized what was happening in front of us.

Until about then, the crowd had been heavily invested in Manny Ramirez’s pursuit of his 500th home run. But as Jon Lester retired one Royal after another, the atmosphere in the old ballpark became increasingly giddy and electric, with moments of expectant silence broken by cheers after every strike, groans after every ball, and gasps after every grounder. The sunset blazed pink and orange over the left field wall.

I woke up this morning and it seemed like a dream. Last night I had this crazy dream, and I was at Fenway Park in May but it was really really cold, and for some reason, all my coworkers were there, and then Jon Lester threw a no-no!

I’ve seen a lot of great moments at Fenway over the past 26 years, but when Lester recorded the final out, the cry of jubilation that erupted in the Fens sounded unlike any other cheer I have ever heard there. It wasn’t the lusty roar I’ve heard at playoff games, and it wasn’t anything like the triumphant crowing you hear at Yankee games. It was the sound of 37,000 people surrendering themselves to euphoria, falling into 100% pure, unadulterated, grade-A baseball love. In fact, I may have given in to the euphoria of the moment a little too much, if possible. No need to go into too much detail, but if you were in Kenmore Square last night and saw a blond woman, about 5′6″, leaning into the brick facade of Fenway Park and apparently attempting to hug the venerable edifice, let’s just say you weren’t hallucinating.

The night was better suited for October than May. There was a wind whipping through Boston that put whitecaps on the Charles. Dust blew into my eyes on the way to the park. It was the kind of night you expected fly balls to become home runs and pop-ups to become singles. That Jon Lester threw a no-hitter is amazing enough. That he did it in such a gale? Unbelievable. Except that I was there and I saw it with my own eyes.

I walked back across the river, the moon and the Citgo sign shining brightly on the water. I could still see the white glow of Fenway’s light towers. The night didn’t feel so cold anymore—the wind had died down. I fell into talking with a couple of guys who were also making the trek back to the Cambridge side of the Charles. I’ve high-fived with strangers in Kenmore after a great game, but I’ve never had thirty-minute conversations with them. But maybe this is just normal, post-no-hitter behavior—who knows? They told me a great story. They were sitting next to an elderly woman. Last year, she gave her tickets to Clay Buchholz’s no-no last year to her daughter and granddaughter. There may be no crying in baseball, but I do believe there is karma.

Late tonight one of the most improbable games I ever heard of was played between the Dodgers and the Padres.

Let me back up a bit. The Padres had been chasing the Dodgers in the NL West for an entire month, edging closer and closer until they were only half a game back heading into this weekend’s climactic four game showdown.  Staying true to form, the Padres continued their dominance of the Dodgers this season in head to head matchups (13-5), taking two out of the first three games to finally overtake the Dodgers and snatch a half game lead going into Monday’s final game.

Things looked pretty normal for most of the game. In yet another closely fought contest, the Padres yet again were just a bit better than the Dodgers and eeked out a 6-5 lead heading into the ninth. In a desperation move, the Dodgers brought in their ace closer, Takashi Saito, to preserve the one-run deficit.  Whereupon Saito promptly melted down and let in 3 runs in the top of the ninth.

The Dodgers were now down 4 runs in the bottom of the ninth, and it was looking like a laugher and a 1 1/2 game lead in the west for the Padres.  But then, the Dodgers caught lightning in a bottle.  Jeff Kent and JD Drew hit back to back solo homers leading off the inning to narrow the gap to 9-7.  This against jon Adkins, who had only allowed one home run all season in 51 innings pitched.  Bruce Bochy now pulled Adkins and brought on closer Trevor Hoffman, who has been virtually untouchable against the Dodgers over his career - 55 for 57 in saves, 28 consecutive saves, had not blown a save against the Dodgers in five years. With the bases empty and still down two runs, things once again looked grim for the Dodgers.

But amazingly enough, the next two batters, lineup bottom-feeders Russell Martin and Marlon Anderson, each hit a solo home run as well against one of the greatest closers of all time.  Four consecutive solo home runs leading off the ninth to erase a four run deficit! Only the third time any team in major league history has hit four homers in a row! Ridiculous!

The Dodgers’ fans, notorious for leaving early, came streaming back in from the parking lots when they heard the volume of the cheers. 

However, no sooner had the game become tied, did Trevor Hoffman remember he was Trevor Hoffman and quickly retire the next three batters in order.

It was now 9-9. Extra Innings.

The Dodgers now had new hope, but it was immediately quenched when the Padres promptly scored a run of Aaron Sele in the top of the 10th inning to go ahead 10-9.

To the bottom of the 10th. Kenny Lofton works a 3-2 count and then takes an extremely close pitch and up comes Nomar Garciaparra. Yes, Nomar, who shouldn’t even be playing due to a torn ligament in his knee and a torn muscle in his calf, and hasn’t shown any life in his bat in months, and is barely above the Mendoza line since the All-Star break, but who somehow convinced Grady Little to let him start this game after having been benched for the past week.

So naturally he hits a game winning, walk-off, two-run home run.  Shades of Kirk Gibson, he is so hobbled that he can barely make it all the way around the bases on his own power.  Dodgers win, 11-10.  They lead the division once again by half a game.

Don’t go anywhere folks. At least out West, there is still a lot of baseball left to be played.