Marking a Pandemic Anniversary

There has been a lot of discussion this week about the pandemic anniversary, as we are now one year removed from when things really hit the fan. Most people in the United States realized that things were really bad, or were about to be, sometime during the second week of March 2020. And as it is for many, my pandemic anniversary is today, March 11, which is also when I was in the Dominican Republic for the last time.

The trip had been planned for a while, and I was scheduled to leave for Santo Domingo on Saturday, March 7 with an overnight stop in Newark. It sounds crazy now, but at no point did I or anyone else with the Astros’ contingent heading to the island think twice about traveling. As I departed for O’Hare International, the CDC reported 437 cases of the virus in the United States. More than a quarter of those were from cruise ships or a long-term care facility in Washington State. New York, which would soon become the epicenter for the virus domestically, reported a grand total of 13 new cases. The only related sports story was a rumor that the NBA was working on a contingency plan for playing without fans if things got bad — if.

And so, partially because of our case rates, and partially because The Guardian’s home base is in the UK (I was, and usually still am, getting my COVID-19 news from them), the pandemic still felt like something happening over there. Things in China were dire, obviously, and COVID-19 was starting to spread like wildfire in Europe, where some countries were just beginning to talk about shut downs. In the United States, though, things felt safer.

The airport seemed normal for the most part. Hand sanitizer was just becoming more prevalent, and I brought a small bottle with me, but masks were still far from the public consciousness at that point. I remember texting my wife that I saw only two or three people wearing them among the thousands at the airport, and how it reminded me of being in Japan; it was almost cute, this still-voluntary bit of caution. “Social distancing” had not yet entered the lexicon. I didn’t think twice about sitting next to someone on a plane, or getting in line to board, or grabbing a bite to eat in a crowded airport food court.

It was going to be a busy week in the Dominican, as we had planned a private workout at our complex that overlapped with an MLB-sponsored showcase at the Mets’ facility. The creeping pandemic, which was still a few days away from being called that, was on everyone’s mind, but nobody paused at the thought of crowding into a van every morning to go from the hotel to the field.

The first day of the showcase took place on Monday and would look foreign to most these days. With nearly 100 players and multiple games going on at the same time, teams flooded the fields with scouts. Literally hundreds of evaluators sat in tightly-packed plastic chairs around multiple fields. Nobody wore masks, nor did anyone seem to think much about them. Other than the occasional elbow bump in lieu of a handshake, it remains the most recent normal baseball event I have attended.

Between innings, I checked Twitter and news sources for updates on what seemed to be on its way. I stayed in touch with my close work group via Slack. There was lots of speculation, ranging from “we’re all screwed” and “baseball is going to shut down” to “this is no big deal” and “everything will be fine.” That afternoon, Major League Baseball held a conference call about the situation and decided to continue spring training and plan for the regular season starting on time. I felt dubious, but it was still certainly in the realm of possibility.

On Tuesday, we went to the Astros’ complex for a private workout. We saw some players and talked about them, and then I went back to the hotel to submit reports. In the United States, discussions had begun around having some teams stay in Arizona or Florida to begin the regular season at their spring training sites.

Wednesday moved quickly and furiously, and it was hard to concentrate on the baseball in front of me. I know that I was looking at my phone as much as I was watching the game. In the morning, Dr. Anthony Fauci testified that things were going to get worse. By lunch, the World Health Organization had declared a global pandemic. Later that afternoon, San Francisco banned public gatherings, and the Golden State Warriors decided to play their scheduled game that night in an empty arena. Coronavirus was no longer being seen as something happening over there.

Still, in terms of being social and around people, I was operating normally. On Monday, I saw a good friend with the Dodgers’ international contingent, and we made plans to have dinner on Wednesday night. We met up in the lobby of our shared hotel and hopped in a cab.

Shibuya Ichiban is an excellent Japanese restaurant in Santo Domingo’s swanky Blue Mall. We both made nervous jokes while looking at our phones as the story of the pandemic continued to grow and dominate our feeds. We read about Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson testing positive as our appetizers arrived. By the time we were onto the entrees, Twitter had exploded with the news of an NBA player testing positive and an arena being cleared. I ordered another cocktail. President Trump was going to interrupt in prime time to address the nation. We couldn’t really hear what he was saying in the crowded setting, and Twitter was just sound bites, but the clearest and most striking thing we were able to ascertain was “the closing of borders.”

“We should get out of here,” I said to my dining partner, meaning the country and not the restaurant.

“Yeah,” he quietly responded, his mind clearly and understandably elsewhere.

We both closed Twitter and opened our airline apps, keen to get home as soon as possible. I was originally scheduled to leave on Saturday morning and desperately wanted to change that. United’s app was slow and clearly struggling. Error codes with messages about responses timing out or the app being unable to complete my request were constant. My friend with the Dodgers was experiencing the same with his airline. We decided to go back to the hotel in the hopes that we’d have better luck on their respective websites.

We found a cab and continued to process the situation with nervous jokes. “This is what the beginning of zombie apocalypse movies are like,” my friend smirked. We agreed to stay in touch as a support system as we worked our way back home.

Hopes of effortlessly solving my travel issues were quickly dashed back in my room. United’s website was unresponsive, with several of the same error messages I was getting on my phone popping. I called my wife to let her know what was going on, and she assured me that everything would be fine, and that I had a hotel room for the next three days anyway, so there was nothing to panic about yet. She also added that she had gone to the store to stock up, and that the grocery stores in northern Illinois looked like they do in Florida before hurricanes hit.

I decided to try to solve my issues on the phone. Because of how often I had to travel for the team, I, like many scouts and beat writers, had special status with United and a special number to call. Surely that would take care of it! I dialed the number, hit the prompts and then heard, “Please hold for the next available agent. Your approximate hold time is five hours.” I had nothing else to do, and more importantly, no choice. I was sitting in my hotel room with CNN International on in the background keeping me updated, so I put my phone on speaker with the intent of waiting it out as George Gershwin played on loop.

I decided to fiddle with the website more and discovered that while trying to change my ticket resulted in a constant barrage of errors, buying a new ticket worked. I found a flight the next morning from Santo Domingo to Newark to Chicago with seats available. In a normal world (remember that?), this would have cost thousands, but the travel economy was already collapsing; I was able to purchase a ticket for international travel on 12 hours notice for less than $300. I called the front desk to let them know I was checking out the next morning. I texted my friend with the Dodgers, who had had the same luck and would be leaving for the airport an hour or so before me. I began to pack while watching a baseball show on a local station that was showing highlights of Dominican players from that day’s spring training games. It felt so strange to know that they were even still playing after the situation had gone from zero to 50 in last 24 hours.

SDQ is the airport code for Santo Domingo. It’s not the airport that tourists fly into, with its pristine, tropical feel; it’s serviceable, if a bit dingy. That Thursday morning, it was a madhouse. I decided to try to stay calm throughout the day, realizing that no matter what, I still had it better than 98% of the world. I waited patiently at the counter; when it was my turn, the agent took my passport and began to type on his terminal. Then he typed some more. Then he paused and cocked his head like a dog confused by the sound of a fart. Then he typed some more and stared at his screen in silence for what was probably just 20 seconds but what felt like an hour.

“Everything okay?” I asked nervously.

“You’re on another flight out of this airport two days from now,” he said. I explained what happened last night and how the only solution was purchasing a one-way ticket for today. Then the agent said, “Everything is screwed up here, but be patient and I’ll take care of you.” More typing, more pausing, and then — finally and with an incredible sense of relief — I was handed tickets home.

I landed in Newark and began the 15-minute trek to immigration. Once I arrived, it was clear that most of the people there had changed their travel plans to get home as soon as possible. The airport was prepared for the situation, and the immigration booth were fully staffed, but the line to get into the country measured in the thousands. I’ve never been so conscious of how fortunate I am to have Global Entry; within 10 minutes, I was officially back stateside. I wished I could do something to help the non-frequent flyers stuck in the long lines, and worried about how many of them would miss connecting flights that evening. I still had one more flight to Chicago, and once I entered the terminal, I was struck by just how empty it was, as if I’d landed there in the wee hours of the morning. I sent my friend an update: “Newark is a morgue,” I wrote, before realizing that he had texted me “LAX is a graveyard” an hour before. Half of the shops were closed, and the terminal felt dark and cavernous. Still, masks were rare, although their absence didn’t carry any kind of defiance.

Every TV in the airport was switched to pandemic coverage. The people arriving at my gate looked nervous. For the first time, I saw passengers aggressively scrubbing down their sets and tray tables with disinfectant wipes. I tried to take a nap on my flight, to no avail. After about 12 hours of traveling, I finally arrived home. The rest of the folks on the trip were all home by Friday. That day, MLB would announce it was delaying Opening Day by “at least two weeks”; the season wouldn’t start until July 23.

It’s strange to look back on now. The Astros signed players out of that workout who have yet to really begin any sort of professional career. There was a little Venezuelan catcher at the showcase with great energy behind the plate and a bit of contact skill. I’m not even sure if he’s signed anywhere. I wonder what he’s up to. Before the games had started that Monday, I bumped elbows with Johan Maya, a Diamondbacks scout who’d once scouted and served as a minor league manager with the Astros; he passed away in July after contracting the virus.

I haven’t been to the Dominican Republic since; 12 months later, I’m left wondering when I will again. At least I finally feel confident in saying that it’s a when, not an if. I’m not sure if I would have believed that as I rushed out of a sushi restaurant in Santo Domingo a year ago, desperate to get home, airline hold music be damned.