The High Desert Mavericks play ball in the small town of Victorville, CA. The town is fairly non-desprict in nature, but does have the notoriety of having the famous Route 66 pass right through it. For all of you folks out there that enjoy traveling the back roads of America, Route 66 isn't known as "The Mother Road" for no reason. Like many of the small towns that Route 66 passes through on it's 2400 mile journey from Chicago to Santa Monica, Victorville is that typical blue collar burg. With the added attraction of being the edge of the giant Mojave Desert, it is well worth a visit!

It was a late summer day in August, 1998 when we arrived in town via the long uphill climb from Rancho Cucamonga. The day began with a fill-up of 87 octane, we hit the road for a few miles when Scott discovered that his wallet wasn't in his pocket! "OH NO", he said, "I bet I left it at the gas station." Scrambling back, we found no wallet at the station. After further searching the car, the wayward wallet was found in the car's console. It's just a small price to pay for an early morning after getting good and tight the previous night, I justified.

Since we had a few spare hours until the 6 p.m. game time, we took a drive for a desert adventure. I remember it being very hot, as one would expect in a desert in the summer, but just what were thunderstorms doing forming in this area?

As we entered the ballpark, the game time temperature was a torrid 114 degrees! Those thunderheads produced a few LARGE raindrops, which sizzled to steam on the hot concrete stadium steps. Then I noticed that Maverick Stadium didn't even own a tarp to cover the field! The Baseball Gods were kind, however, and the rain stopped and the game began on time. It was a prudent thing that we eschewed the beer in favor of water and lemonade during the game. First, any alcohol consumed in that extreme heat would have probably trashed our ability to function the rest of the evening (I could hold out until we got to the first post game air conditioned bar to begin the evening's partying), and second, if I was a bit tipsy, I probably wouldn't have been able to avoid that screaming one hop foul ball that was aiming at my cranium while sitting in our front row seats. As justice should have it, a weak foul ball dribbled toward me later in the game. All I had to do is reach down over the railing and pick up the ball that had come to rest right next to the railing wall. The third base coach saw me somehow struggling with this easy task, and sauntered over and handed me the ball. This ball sits proudly in the Baseball Room of my house. Just holding that ball brings fond memories of a very fun day in the desert!