Years ago there was an advertisement on Australian television for the fizzy drink Dr Pepper which featured the Statue of Liberty uprooting itself from the Hudson and striding across the ocean floor before emerging between the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge.



As water ran down the Torch of Enlightenment we cut to two blokes holding cans of Dr Pepper and looking up at the statue. One asks, “Waddya reckon?” His mate takes a sip and replies: “Yeah – you could get used to it.”

It was a cracking ad, and had Dr Pepper not tasted worse than cough syrup for Komodo Dragons it might have caught on like other American institutions – Coca-Cola, say, or I Dream of Jeannie.

We are wandering up to the mighty, storied Sydney Cricket Ground on a balmy autumn evening in Sydney Town, the sky several gorgeous if foreboding shades of purple and mauve, with the odd angry shot of blood orange. Bats – specifically the local grey-headed flying fox – flap through the skies, heading off to do what bats do, while 38,000 people converge on the latest American thing to arrive in Australia, namely the American thing – Major League Baseball, and the ball-game between the LA Dodgers and Arizona Diamondbacks.

Soon enough, we’re in … and it’s another world. Brilliant white lights bathe the ground in golden faux daytime. Where once checker-board green grass dominated the field, now there’s crushed terracotta baseball dirt, a “warning track”, bases, dugouts, and other basebally stuff. The players wander out and line up on the, um, lines. There is high-fiving. Players’ names are read out, then those of the third-base coach, and other ancillary dudes. Hard to see Steve Rixon getting a shout-out before a Test match, but there you go. It’s a thing. “Clayton … Kershaw,” announces the announcer, and there are cheers. He’s the pitcher, an important man. He will earn $215m in the next seven years, you couldn’t buy New Zealand with that, but you could own most of Queenstown.

And so to a full-strength beer – the kind that raises a man’s mood – from a long yet moving queue. On field, a mascot creature, possibly an Ewok, is pinging balls into the crowd, having fun. The Qantas quasi-virgins are here in their gleaming white tunics and larynxes of the lord.

Baseball at the SCG contained excitement, top players and lots of hot dogs. Photograph: Cameron Spencer/Getty Images

Then we’re up into the media box, high in the MA Noble Stand, where we find the United Nations of baseball. There’s American, Japanese, Korean, Latin American, British and Australian media. Los Angeles radio broadcasts in Spanish and English. Local journos are doing their best while Americans say stuff like, “This guy stinks”. And it’s all a little different. Example? You can buy tacos, hot dogs, Miller beer. American and Australian flags flutter atop the Members Stand. There are anthems. Marcia Hines, the diva, rips off a cracking Star Spangled Banner. Australia Fair is Advanced by Emma Birdsall, and Australians actually get into it. Sydney Swans champion Adam Goodes wanders out to throw the ceremonial pitch. He shines the baseball on his groin, smiles like he’s doing something naughty. That’s why he’s Australian of The Year, right there.

The Diamondbacks trot out into this gorgeous green field of dreams. Outfielders languidly hurl white rocks at each other, flat and hard. These aren’t parabolas but bullets shot flat over 50 metres. The arms on these people! A hairy man warms up on the pitcher’s mound. It's Wade Miley. He’ll be throwing the first one to Yasiel Puig, a 23-year-old from Cienfuegos in Cuba. And … strike. If that wasn’t a fastball it was a very-bloody-rapid one. The fans, 90% Aussies, are right into this. There’s little parochialism. The ground looks magnificent with a diamond, a truly big, beautiful thing. The SCG always scrubs up well. But this, this is something else.

Wade Miley flings one past a batter and the batter doesn’t have a crack, and the umpire does one of those brilliant double-fisting moves to signify: you’re outta here. You know the one, like he’s violently double-pumping a motor-mower’s ripcord. Seeya! And tell your story walkin’, Bubba. It is gold. We’ve seen this stuff on the television before, each year we might tune in to the World Series, get to know Wade Boggs or Kirby Puckett. We've heard of Derek Jeter and Dave Nilsson, the Australian who comes to mind when you think Major League Baseball. But actually seeing the umpire do a Leslie Nielsen move from Naked Gun, actually seeing it live and sweaty at the SCG? It is very cool.

Some time early in the game – top of the second? Bottom of the fourth? It matters not – a Dodgers batter smashes the very bejeezus out of one. The ball soars into the clear black night while the man in the outfield goes back-back-back, all the way to the fence, which he climbs, as people the other side of it drop their beers and prepare to catch the ball, excited like Santa’s bringing them a present. As the ball crashes into the bottom of the fence our outfielder is stranded on top, glove out, like Spiderman stuck up a tree.

You get an idea of the speed of the pitches and the friction of bat on ball when foul balls fly high and wide on to the roofs of the various giant grandstands. The sound of the ball on bat is a thick meaty thock, a magnificent, meaty sound which sends the white ball shooting into the black of the night. And you think, hot dang, or something like it.

Middle of the fifth, whenever, some time, groundstaff come out with wiper things which they drag behind themselves, across the dirt to smooth it out. Dance Cam comes on the big screen and a kid does his best to get jiggy, ripping off dance moves. It’s possibly a setup – a kid who can dance funny appears at this very moment in time? – though he gets as big a cheer as Goodes. Wade Miley’s still going. How long before the manager comes out to tell him he’s no longer required? Maybe not long. Because … homer! A home run! Smashed over right-field by a big dude with a beard, the ball slicing in a powerful manner towards an upright yellow fence thing and into the crowd on the correct side of the law. That sucka is outta here.

Down we go to a spot directly behind the umpire/catcher, and several rows of people who’ve paid $850 for a seat – they should not be trusted with money. It's a world-class event and very interesting, but you wouldn’t pay $850. You can fly to Thailand for $850. I once bought a car for $850. It was a crap car, granted. But you wouldn’t pay $850 for a seat here with money you found on the body of a long-dead pimp.

Thock! A hot whack near third base sees a man leap into the air and take a speccie, one-handed, one-gloved leaping super-catch. What a catch. They call the bit around third base “hot corner” because right-handed batters can crack it flat like slingshot alley. It's the hot spot, and no argument.



And, here we are, the fabled seventh-inning stretch. And here’s that song, Take Me Out To the Ball Game. On the big screen some football men from Sydney Swans, Sydney Roosters and New South Wales Waratahs sing the song and mug for the crowd, and it’s pretty good, without being more entertaining than Cirque Du Soleil in the nude. Thock! A massive foul ball, on to the roof of the Bradman Stand. The ball almost rolls back off the roof, eliciting one of the biggest cheers of the evening. There follows applause: the Dodgers pitcher is going off. There’s a new one. Seven people stand on the mound, waiting for him.

The new man is … Christ, look at this bloke, it’s Ned Kelly morphed with Hulk Hogan. His name’s Brian Wilson. He should be lifting barrels of beer off a truck, not throwing speed balls on the SCG. But that he can do, Big Ned, his pitches are hot white rocks from a cannon. The Diamondbacks also change their pitcher. New one is Brad Ziegler, a Richie Cunningham-looking fellow with a whippy, side-arm, slinging, almost-underarm pitching style. The magic of Google tells us he’s a “side-armer” or “side-winder”, and a man not to be trusted, though I made that up.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest The Dodgers' very own Ned Kelly, Brian Wilson, in action. Photograph: Saeed Khan/AFP/Getty Images

If you can’t trust Richie Cunningham it is The End of Times for humanity. The score is 3-1 Dodgers. The D-Backs have a multi-man confab on the mound. They replace their pitcher with JJ Putz. Old Richie side-winder didn’t get much of a go. Long way to fly for not a dozen chucks. But then he can console himself by rolling in his money given that he – a relief pitcher, mind, not even Main Guy – will earn $4.5m in 2014, the GDP of Tasmania.

The Dodgers are going to cruise home here, the first win of roughly 35,000 they’ll need to win a pennant or World Series, or something. Now another, pitcher, Kenley Jansen, is hurling missiles at the Diamondbacks, who swing forlornly. Wow. Big Kenley’s throwing super-hot rocks, trying to crush life from this petering contest. He’s a “closer”. It’s what they do. Then he gives up a walk. The game-tying run comes into bat in the form of … someone, a man. The accordian gets a workout: Let’s go Arizona Diamondbacks. Let’s go. Crowd getting a little jiggy … might we see something extraordinary? No. We do not. Big Kenley stands atop the Diamondbacks' throats with a series of piss-fast hot-rocks, and after two hours and 49 minutes the game peters out, as baseball games do, and we finish Dodgers of Los Angeles 3, Diamondbacks of Arizona 1.

But! Major League Baseball? Lend us an ear: Come back. Please. For like our Lady Liberty and unlike Dr Pepper’s foul demon juice, Australians could easily get used to watching this at the Sydney Cricket Ground, and in consistently super numbers. Make it happen, money.