INTRODUCTION: LESS THAN KEROUAC

Every group of guy friends has had the discussion at one point or another, but for once it wasn’t just sweet, sweet drunk talk.

Following several frozen cocktails at Under the Volcano on empty stomachs, we finally decided to do it. Eight days, 10 Major League Baseball ballparks, the Budweiser brewery, and enough fried food to give Carlos Lee the gout. It’s the Great American Bro'd Trip, and on Day One, it still seems like a really good idea.

This space will not be used to wax nostalgically about the great American pastime. It’s been done many times before by writers with far more talent than I can claim.

To illustrate, add David Halberstam’s The Teammates or George Plimpton’s Out of My League to your summer reading list. Baseball is the MacGuffin of this road trip story. We’re combing two of the most stereotypically American traditions — baseball and disdain for public transportation — into an ambitious and indirect journey home.

It’s kind of like Sesame Street Presents: Follow That Bird, but with fewer Muppets and a lot more cursing.

This is the story of two native New England sons who have chosen to make their adult lives in Houston journeying back east for the summer. My copilot, with Colin “Dabbo” Dabbs — a middle school history teacher — is destined for southern Connecticut on his annual trek to visit family and friends during his well-earned seasonal hiatus.

I have temporally left behind my swanky publicist lifestyle and all of its papier-mâché trappings for a summer spent verbally assaulting hippies in Vermont while working on a master’s degree at Middlebury College’s Bread Loaf School of English — hence the really, really shitty blond guy beard I’m sporting these days.

As we make our way north in search of Dunkin’ Donuts, edible bagels, and people familiar with seasonal depression, we’ll cut a trail north through Oklahoma and Missouri up to Wisconsin, then across the Great Lakes region, taking in as many ballparks, breweries and tourist traps along the way as possible. We’ll play games like “Douche / Note a Douche” and go in search of the legendary North American Fe-Mullet.

These are the rules of the Great American Bro’d Trip:

1. No shaving
2. No collars*
3. No malicious food choices
4. No leaving the ballpark early for any reason
5. No Coldplay
*Hawaiian shirts exempt

Game on . . .

ON THE ROAD TO DALLAS: SO MUCH BEAVER PARAPHERNALIA
I almost considered not bringing up our pit stop at Buc-ee’s — the only thing between Houston and the Dallas / Ft. Worth metroplex, apparently — in the interest of keeping this journal as TV14 as possible. Then I saw a bedazzled beaver T-shirt. (Stifling the urge to make incredibly crass-but-obvious joke). Moving along . . .

RANGERS BALL PARK AND THE BALLAD OF JOHN JASO
It’s not quite Dallas, and it’s not quite Fort Worth. Welcome to Arlington, a sprawling, flat industrial wasteland that’s home to both Rangers Ballpark and Texas Stadium aka America’s Pharaoh Jerry Jones’ $1.5 billion monument to Jerry Jones. It’s not inconceivable that if Jones ever dies (his teeth, at least, will survive a nuclear holocaust) he may be preserved on put on display a la Vladimir Lenin.

And what’s with Texas Stadium’s curious resemblance to the Hall of Doom from The Superfriends? Meanwhile, at the Hall of Justice . . .

Ranger’s Ballpark, on the other hand, is a remarkable combination of functional elegance and focus group soullessness. It’s almost too perfect for it’s own good. If the park itself were close enough to Dallas to offer a view of the city’s skyline, I’m certain I’d be praising it as the one of the better ballpark experiences in the country. Too bad it feels so detached from any metropolitan identity while instead embracing a bland “Texasness.”

Oh, and I had to wait 15 minutes for a jumbo soft pretzel. Inexcusable.

Meanwhile, the AL East leading Tampa Bay Rays defeated the Ranger’s 9-5 in one of the longest nine-inning games (four hours and six minutes) I’ve ever watched start to finish that didn’t involve the Yankees and Red Sox. Rays DH John “Who’s John Jaso?” Jaso, drove in five runs from the leadoff spot.

After the game, Dabbo (30) and I (28) waited 45 minutes in line with several hundred preteens to run the bases. There were no survivors.

DOUCHE / NOT A DOUCHE: THE DESIGNER HOCKEY SWEATER DOUCHE
Welcome to a game we like to call “Douche / Not a Douche” where we select some random potential douche out of the crowd and debate whether or not to enshrine him into the Pantheon of Douche.

We weren’t necessarily looking for a candidate in Arlington per se (Chicago was the intended launch point), but there’s noting wrong with a little batting practice.

THE EVIDENCE: The dude was not only sporting a hockey sweater at professional baseball game in metro Dallas in triple digit heat while lacking the requisite hockey hair (mullet) that would have potentially salvaged the jersey choice, but it was a Tommy Hilfiger hockey jersey (with a captain’s “C” stitched on) paired with checkered cargo shorts.

Couple that with his insistence on constantly running up and down the aisles so everyone would see him instead of watching what was a decent ballgame until the late innings, and you’ve entered the city limits of DoucheTown.

IN HIS DEFENSE: It is entirely conceivable that A) this guy had no idea that his jersey was a hockey sweater; B) doesn’t know what ice hockey is; or C) has no reflective surfaces in his home. Also in his favor, a lack of frosted tips, overly manicured facial hair, or obvious steroid use.

VERDICT: Five minute major and a game misconduct for being a flagrant douche

RANDOM SIGHTING: VAGUELY RACIST INSURANCE COMPANY
James Crow Insurance agency, Sherman TX

St. Louis tomorrow . . .