Ahh, baseball!
My most enjoyable memories of any baseball game, whether it be one I played or one I watched, are always of leaving. It’s not that I don’t like baseball. I don’t like any sports. But I simply despise baseball.
Sure, no other pastime personifies the American way of life more than baseball – except maybe dealing drugs. The way I see it most baseball players are obnoxious doped up macho guys who get paid tremendous amount of money to run away from guys in uniform and then head “home” to be “safe.” Drug dealers do about the same thing, only they get paid slightly less than the baseball players.
“You and me are going to a baseball game,” says my friend Greg on the phone.
“Why me?”
“Because I have tickets and I can’t find anyone else to go .”
“So I’m you’re last resort?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Be ready in five minutes.”
“I don’t like baseball and I don’t want to go. Besides, I have to grow my hair tonight.”
“Your ticket is free. You’re going.”
With that as the sales pitch I am whisked away to Yankees Stadium. On the way there I begin to plan out how I will increase my enjoyment of this event, but my hopes are dashed when I look up at the consession stand list and cry out, “They want how much for a cup of beer?”
Sober and bored five minutes after reaching the stadium, I follow Greg as he weeds his way up and down the aisles to our seats.
“These are great seats!” says Greg. “We have a pretty good chance of being hit in the head by a foul ball! Better keep an eye out for something like that.”
“You’re saying these are good seats because we have a fairly high chance of being killed?”
“You won’t be killed with a foul ball. You might suffer some permanent brain damage, but you won’t be killed. People rarely die at baseball games.”
“That’s comforting,” I agree.
After about ten minutes of watching a lot of guys drive around in golf carts and running around with rakes we decide it is time to get something to eat. Greg opts for a bag of peanuts which cost about as much as my car and I considered getting a hot dog, but I was afraid I might not be able to charge the whole thing on my Visa. I end up with the equally nutritious funnel cake, which gives me my yearly allowance of both sugar and fat in just one sitting.
We find our way back to our seats just in time to meet the three “Baseball Fans” behind us who are clearly three sheets to the wind as the game gets underway.
Though we never actually meet, I feel as though I am spending several hours of intimate time with them because everything they say is was proclaimed with the full intention of having all the players on the field hear them. I’m not even sure of their names, but I’m going to guess their friends call them something like Einstein, Davinci and Shakespeare.
Shakespeare, clearly the leader of the group, begins each play by watching the game through the bottom of his beer cup. Then, depending on the outcome of the play, he says one of two things:
If the play was good for the Yankees then Shakespeare screams out, “Yeah! That’s the way to do it, guys! Woooeeee!” as though he was the personal friend and trainer of every player on the field.
But if the Yankees screw up or there is a call against them then Shakespeare yells out some variation of, “Hey, Ump, you need to get yourself some glasses!” and then begins laughing as though he is the wittiest thing since Jon Stewart took over The Daily Show.
Davinci signals the end of the insult by burping like a foghorn. Finally they all laugh themselves into coughing fits and Einstein follows up with something intelligent like, “Yup” or “I’m going to get more beer.”
Between innings Shakespeare makes rude comments about the woman with big breasts who is sitting four rows ahead of us.
Baseball used to be a slow and relaxing games but crowds grew used to a faster pace with modern conveniences like MTV, personal computers and indoor plumbing. Professional baseball leagues saw that people were getting restless and tried to speed up the time between innings and plays. Now most professional baseball games now have the fast-paced rhythm of watching paint dry.
Without even going to a game you can pretty much predict what’s going to happen: A group of guys walks out across a big field. One guy throws a ball a bunch. Every now and then someone hits a ball into the field. Guys run around and throw the ball back and forth. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Baseball is the sport fishing of the athletic world: You spend hours drinking and nearly falling asleep for the rare chance to experience the “excitement” of seeing someone hit a ball so hard it flies out of the stadium. And once he does then everyone jumps up and cheers for a minute before settling back down into a drunken haze to eat some more peanuts and continue to make rude comments about the woman with the big breasts four rows down.
At least in sport fishing you end up with something to eat.
The game goes on for about 8 innings or roughly 3.4 years by my count. Soon after the 8th inning the skies open up and it starts raining. Hard.
“Greg, it’s raining.”
“Yeah, so.”
“So why is everyone still just sitting here? We’re getting soaked.”
“They’re all watching the game, now be quiet.”
“Even cows know when to get out of the rain.”
“These aren’t cows. These are baseball fans.”
We leave the stadium, allowing Einstein, Davinci and Shakespeare to drink their beer and make their comments and continue enjoying the game on levels I can’t even begin to comprehend. As I leave a smile crosses my face. Everything is right in the world at this moment:
I’m finally going home, Greg isn’t going to have the balls to invite me to another game, and I’m pretty sure Einstein is going to strike out with that woman with the big breasts. And that pretty much covers all the bases.