Blonde at bat
I’ve never played a sport. I’ve never really even been a sports fan. I do, however, enjoy the “experience” associated with attending live sporting events. By experience, I usually mean the food, but it also includes the general atmosphere that most people know and love inside a stadium.
My first baseball game that I can remember occurred in seventh grade. St. Joseph School took my class to a Cleveland Indians game at the then-named Jacobs Field. Now, in seventh grade, I was at the height of my awkwardness, while Britney Spears was at the height of her “dress like a school girl” phase. Needless to say, showing up in a public place, let alone a packed stadium of jersey-wearing “gentlemen,” wearing a plaid jumper, was nothing short of humiliating. Without going into further detail, I would call that strike one.
The next time I was up at bat happened just a few years ago. I had returned home for the first time in five years. An acquaintance of mine thought it would be perfect to set me up on a date with her brother-in-law. Being that I was newly single, I took the opportunity to meet someone and enjoy a first date at, where else, a Cleveland Indians game. Turns out, the guy I was set up with was 12 years my senior and we had absolutely nothing in common. He reminisced about the good old days of Albert Belle and Kenny Lofton… while I thought back to those times myself. He drove up to the ballpark with his buddies, crammed into an old beat up Ford, barely making it home in a conscious state, while I, on the other hand, sat in front of the television with a plastic Jim Thome batting helmet my parents had picked up for me at McDonald’s. The difference between the two of us made the whole experience somewhat to extremely uncomfortable. He was nice, but I would have to say that was strike two.
Several weeks ago, I obtained some tickets to an Akron Aeros game. What’s the worst that could happen? I had already struck out twice in my attempt to be a baseball fan, but surely, this time would result in a home run. I had planned for weeks, right down to my outfit (yes, I was extremely proud of my yellow baseball hat, which matched my yellow tank top) as well as plenty of sunscreen, gas in the car, and money for beverages and nachos and pretzels and hot dogs and… Well, you get the idea.
On the way up, my boyfriend Mike and I jammed to the radio. The sun was shining, the windows were down and it was a glorious day for baseball. At Canal Park, families were lining up at the gates, bubbles were literally floating through the air and honestly, Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a more family-oriented scene of happiness.
As Mike and I made our way through the stadium, taking in every sight, scent, and sound, we found that our seats were right behind home plate in the shade. “This is our lucky day!” I exclaimed. Oh, Lady Luck…
We hit all the necessary stops prior to the game, including the snack and beverage stand, and as we sat waiting for the National Anthem, I happily bounced in my seat like a small child on her first field trip. My boyfriend and I were all a-snuggle, sharing the joys of young love and a carefree life while watching one of America’s pastimes. Life was good, simple as that.
The game was about to start so I offered to get us refills on our drinks before the first pitch was thrown. And this is where the massive explosion/avalanche that is strike three came to a head. I reached into my pocket and found… nothing. I checked again. Nothing. I checked the camera case. I checked under the seat. I checked everywhere.
My money was gone. All of it. Every last dime. The game hadn’t even started and I had already struck out.
I’m pretty sure that even the strange man checking tickets could tell something truly horrendous had happened, you know, like a murder in the stands or a rogue baseball knocking an elderly woman into unconsciousness. Every last emotion I was feeling at the time, from anger to embarrassment to shock to a devastating level of sadness, burst from my body. As I stood in front of my seat, I could feel all the eyes from surrounding spectators burrowing into my crushed little soul. I felt the hot tears stream down my face.
I was sobbing. No, I was literally hysterical.
“The money! It’s gone! Everything I saved! The money! We didn’t even finish our first drink! The game! The money!” My tears were flowing, my thoughts were racing, my arms were flailing… and all my boyfriend, as well as everyone else sitting around me could do, was stare in shock, mouths open, not blinking, trying to come up with some coherent sentence that would calm me down.
I stood there for what seemed like most of the first inning, throwing my tantrum, but eventually just slumped in my seat and huddled into the fetal position. Every time Mike leaned over to put his hand on mine, I would shrug him off and wail at an even louder decibel. I’m pretty sure the 14-year-old boy next to me hadn’t peeled his eyes from the car-accident-like scene, despite the fact the game was going on throughout the whole debacle.
“Do you want to go home?” Mike finally asked.
Through my wails, all I could come up with was a muffled, “But you’re having so much fun!”
Good thing the batter cracked one out of the park at that very moment, because I don’t think my fragile ego could have taken the thunderous laughter from both my boyfriend and the crowd around me.
Mike did, in fact, convince me that leaving was the best option, and as we walked through the exit gates, the ticket takers interrupted my sobs with, “Will you be coming back in, because if you want to, you have to…” Mike stopped her mid-sentence with what I can assume was a “cut-it-off” motion at his throat. And as the second inning began, we drove away from Canal Park.
Although someone surely enjoyed my wadded up $50, and I hope that someone is reading this right now, the end result from my horrible third experience with professional baseball is that I have given up entirely.
Strike three. I’m out.
To see this blog, as well as other stories on the area's Little League baseball teams, pick up a copy of Game magazine, out on newsstands in Holmes County now.