Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Not that I Want to Watch the Damn Thing

I’m as sorry as I can be—and no one is sorrier than the man who hit the ball—that a little girl was struck by a foul ball at a game in Houston and had to be taken to the hospital.  I agree that protective netting should be extended all along the infield.  Players hit hard line drives, and fans need to be protected.

But I would like to ask—with all due respect—what a little girl was doing at the game in the first place.  The other night my wife and I went to a Durham Bulls game—AAA baseball, great stuff—and I noticed immediately that parents were taking babes in arms, who couldn’t possibly watch the games.  This wasn’t even Kids Run the Bases night.  Or Kids Crawl the Bases Night.

When I was young—a phrase that will have most readers heading for the exits—we didn’t go to the ball park until we were old enough to appreciate the game.  I went to my first game in 1955, the year I would turn seven and my brother nine.  The hometown Pirates played the Milwaukee Braves, who would win the World Series a couple of years later.  The Pirates were perennial last-place finishers .  But on that night, one of the O’Briens—a pair of hapless brothers who played for the Pirates in their cellar-dwelling days—got a hit in the bottom of the ninth and the Pirates won.  We went home happy.

I played baseball constantly at that age, pickup games on our street or in a yard behind houses on the next street.  We played some sport every day, and in the summer it was baseball.  What struck me about my first visit to Forbes Field was the way we walked into what seemed to be a dark cavernous basement, then emerged onto a field that was magically, beautifully green, in the middle of the city.  That moment of seeing the field was a thrill every time.  The other thing that amazed me was the size of the field.  The shortstop and third baseman made throws that were way beyond what I could do at that point, but were strictly routine to them.  Infield practice before every inning was fascinating.  Long throw after long throw, culminating in the catcher’s hard peg to second.

I could watch those throws because nothing else was going on.  There were no battles between fake sumo wrestlers in rubber suits or contests where kids put on frozen clothing.  There was no music playing, and no announcements until somebody came up to bat.  There was just the beauty of baseball, the rituals of the game.  They were enough.

Nowadays those rituals take place amid a carnival atmosphere of music playing, a contest every half inning, Wooly Bull—my grandfather is turning in his grave—shooting hot dogs into the crowd with a fake bazooka.  Got to keep people entertained every minute.  If you don’t they might not come to the games.  They might not like baseball anymore.  The question is: do they like baseball now?

At my latest outing to the park, I bought tickets high in the grandstand, in the shade of the Durham heat, which was high nineties that evening.  There were no major promotions—no after game fireworks or bat giveaways—so attendance was sparse.  But several rows below where my wife and I sat was a group of people in their late twenties.  They all knew each other; some were coupled up and some not; some brought young children.  Looked like a get-together of old friends.

People drank beer and talked, checked their cellphones, took selfies—we’re at the ballpark!—went around and exchanged bro’ hugs (sometimes blocking my view of the game.  My wife was so proud of me for not saying anything.  I’ve done a lot of work on anger issues.  Now I just have to work on sarcasm).  But in the bottom of the third inning, the Bulls—down by three runs—had loaded the bases with nobody out, and three of these guys stood up and said, “Who needs a beer?  We’re going on a beer run.”  The home team has the bases loaded and you’re going on a beer run?  There’s a ball game down there.  Have you noticed?

I still love baseball.  I love being at the park and seeing the game, and there’s something about baseball players that still amazes me.  And of course attendance is way up from when I was young (all those kids in the stands, for one thing) to say nothing of the salaries.  But I don’t think people love baseball these days.  They love beer, and the variety of foods, and the carnival atmosphere.  It’s like the state fair every day.  And every now and then there’s a loud crack and somebody has hit a home run.  Don’t worry if you miss it.  There’s a replay!

And take the kids!  They’ll have no idea what’s going on.  But they’ll love Wooly Bull.  Maybe they’ll catch a flying hot dog!