I love going to baseball games. That’s not to say I love baseball. I like baseball. I respect baseball. I admire the game, the athleticism, the calculations, the mind play, but that’s not why I go to games. I go for the nachos.
I’m kidding. (I’m not kidding.) I go for more than just the nachos. (They also have soft pretzels.) I go for the atmosphere.
I live for those perfect summer evenings, when the sun is warm on your face and the light zephyr cools you down, when the orange moon rises over the outfield stands and the evening is thick with screaming children, baseball gloves in tow. I love standing up for the wave, belting out the national anthem and attempting to pelt poor players with popcorn, which inevitably rains on the fans one row below mine, causing an uncomfortable grudge for the duration of the game.
Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, a fight will break out — among the players, not between me and the row in front. (Usually.) There is something primal and absurdly awesome about a good baseball fight. Unlike hockey or football, the players have to run great distances — from home plate and the dugout and even the bullpen to the mound — just for the opportunity to throw a punch. And because it takes so long to get there, the fight is often broken up before it begins, resulting in a hilarious horde filled with unrequited aggression and pretend anger, featuring empty threats and profane gestures.
Sidebar: High schools should look into implementing a 50-yard dash before students are allowed to tackle one another in the hallways. That would not only help prevent fights but also enhance physical fitness in the absence of gym class. It’s a win-win.
No matter which stadium you attend or which team you are watching, with a hot dog (tofu dog) in one hand and a large cola (beer) in the other, the atmosphere is what feels like home. OK, not really. I don’t associate my physical abode with peanut shells crushed on the floor. And I think I’d be really freaked out if someone pointed at me with a foot-long finger made of foam, but you get what I’m saying. It’s joy in the form of bleachers. The perfect diamond. I mean, they sell soft serve in a mini baseball cap. In a cap, people!
My elder cousin Jeff, whom I idolized growing up, is responsible for my love of going to games. A baseball fanatic, he taught me how to fill in a score chart and taught me the rules. He’d make mad dashes for refills on snacks, only to drill me on the play-by-play of everything that had occurred in his absence. I associate attending baseball games with the kind of nostalgia that I feel when buying candy cigarettes from the ice cream man or wearing a heavy-metal shirt under my pantsuit.
Baseball has always been part of my life.
Recently, in a knee-jerk reaction to becoming a father, my husband bought season tickets. His statement to the world that parenthood would not change us. Adorable. Laughable. Inaccurate. But hey, it’s cheaper than buying a two-seater convertible.
Baseball games are now spent preoccupying a toddler. Chasing after him, throwing a ball with him, an endless cycle of cars and crayons and snacks and books — anything to keep his bottom in his seat. It’s rough. The atmosphere cannot be experienced, the alcohol not properly consumed, the wave not waved when engaged in toddler entertaining.
Here’s the odd thing. My kid loves baseball. Not going to the games but rather the actual game. Free from the distraction of screaming fans, fried foods and rogue beach balls, he can stand in front of the television and watch the game for hours. He loves it so much that when he entered an older class at day care and was instructed to say a prayer before his snack for the first time, he clapped out a baseball cheer.
I’ve learned something from watching my son’s enthrallment with the game. It turns out that the players have names. And positions. And averages. Turns out baseball isn’t only about nachos. (Just mostly.) Though I knew that, somewhere between sunflower seeds and Cracker Jack boxes, I’d forgotten.
Going into the postseason, I’m excited to say I know a thing or two. Touchdown!