"It's not good," Phillies reserve Greg Dobbs said when asked about the atmosphere. "There's almost a sense that it's really not a big-league game, with the crowds, the sounds, the [lack of] excitement.
"But once the game starts," Dobbs added, "it's like you realize you're in the race. Then every pitch, every out, every run scored is important. You've got to be that focused."
Unless, like millions of others, you find mascot Billy the Marlin particularly annoying, there really aren't many potential distractions for players. No sudden, thunderous roars, no rolling spectator waves, and, unless you're the catcher, first baseman or third baseman, no fans close enough to harass or distract you.
The bulk of the Marlins' tiny crowds cluster in a narrow swath that extends from first to third base. Vast expanses of orange and teal seats, including the entire upper deck, sit permanently unoccupied in a facility whose capacity for Dolphins football exceeds 75,000.
It's such a wilderness that a young couple once felt emboldened enough to engage in sexual activity in a remote right-field perch, confident they could do so in privacy. And if an observant Marlins cameraman hadn't spotted and filmed them in flagrante, they might have pulled it off.
Jayson Werth said that while he'd gotten used to the minuscule crowds at Sun Life, he still hadn't adjusted to what he termed its "football lights."
"The biggest thing you notice is it's dark," the Phillies rightfielder said. "It's not lit up like a normal baseball field. Look at the lights. They're all different colors. Home plate seems dark to me. Overall, it's just a strange atmosphere."
