I recently attended a Philadelphia Phillies versus Washington Nationals Major League Baseball game because the opportunity presented itself and because I’m in a “let’s get off the couch this year” mode. As was rightly asked of me, you lived how many years in Boston and never went to Fenway Park? Incredulous!
I think not. I’m not going to pretend that baseball gets any iota of my attention span when flipping through channels on TV. I can’t think of a more boring game to watch, actually. That said, the game, live, did hold my interest and I rather enjoyed myself. Not knowing much about baseball, I found myself automatically applying the rules of rounders, one of my favourite sports to play as a child. Which would explain why I would gasp each time the batter dropped the bat whilst running to first base. I used to hold on to the bat as if my life depended on it.
The game was a delayed start because of rains, but there still was a good turn out. Great, because the home team won. In writing this post, I’m immediately reminded of the poor souls from yesterdays Spurs vs. Heats game who, disappointed in their team, left the stadium early only to be denied reentry (rightfully so) when they realized that all it took was 2 seconds to turn the game around.
I enjoyed looking into the crowd on this weeknight. Seeing parents with their young children, both girls and boys, and wondering for how many was this their first game, and would they still remember this night, and imagining how they would share their memories of their first participation in this American past-time with their own children and grandchildren. A couple rows in front of me was a well dressed, well manicured older gentleman and his dreadlocked “twenties” son and wondered how often they came to the game and if they ever argued about the dreadlocks…then imagined that they did indeed argue about it but could still put differences aside to watch a game together.
I looked at the elderly folks, many of them stadium staff, wondering how often they’ve been coming to the stadium to support their team. I marveled at the strong young men carrying ice-chests on their heads yelling out “ice cold beer – last call’ as they moved up and down the aisle – images that immediately conjured up two sets of images, one of being transported to early 19th century America hearing the sales pitch with that American accent of classic black & white movies and the other of current day Ghana with the hawkers hissing at the crowds while making their pitch.
So there you have it. I have officially attended a baseball game and I would not be averse to attending more…with the right company, of course. Just don’t try to make me watch it on TV.