March 28, 2018
By Rick Smith
It wasn’t the smell of just the Asian food from the row ahead of us that was distracting.
But combined with the fumes of beer-yesterday’s beer, as in hangover fumes – from the row behind us, our focus on the game gave-way temporarily to a vortex of olfactory voodoo.
But wait – it’s Spring Training. Not to worry. That’s why we’re here. Closeness, intimacy, fun in the sun, games don’t count, party hearty, bucket list time…if you’re lucky.
But if you’re not lucky, the largest human of the 12,000 in the stadium sits right in front of you. Not to worry. Slide down to the left where seats are still open and the view is clear.
Clear, that is, until the real owners of the seats show up and back we slide behind Tiny.
Meanwhile, four rows ahead of us and to our left, a fan hollers to the next batter, “C’mon, Edwards, make Stockton proud.”
Then another fan — four rows behind us and to our right — hollers back to fan number one, “You from Stockton?”
“Sure am,” hollers back fan one.
A yelling conversation continues between them.
“I worked for the city for 30 years,” yells fan number two.
“Did you know Edwards is from Stockton?” answers fan one. “A home town boy.” “My daughter used to babysit him when he was a little kid,” shouts fan number two.
Then from the row behind us, one of the hangover fumers suggests to friends, “Anybody ready for a beer?”
“I’d love a beer,” comes a quick response.
Well, why not? The sun is warm and it’s 2 p.m. but, more importantly — it’s five o’clock somewhere.
We spot another game being played, two rows down from us involving “Mr. Paws” in the blue shirt who can’t keep his hands off the female (his wife?) next to him. Constant contact. Hand on arm, on elbow, rubbing shoulder, neck, rubbing back, rubbing other shoulder.
I decide to mirror the same actions to my own wife. “I’ll do what Paws does,” I tell her.
I touch her arm, her back, her neck. “Stop it,” she says to me.
Then Tiny departs to go somewhere and our view of home plate is again wide open.
But, then a young boy wearing a Burger King crown decides to stand along the railing in front of his seat. His position perfectly blocks our view of home plate again. In addition, he’s looking up into the stands eating yogurt and it’s leaking out his mouth and down his chin.
To my left, the couple that had arrived and forced us to slide back behind Tiny sound like they’re on a first date. The man goes for refreshments and returns with drinks and a hot dog to split. With sweet consideration, he explains that he’s only garnished half the dog, uncertain of his date’s preferences.
“Oh, I’ll eat anything,” she responds . She was noticeably overweight, and I wanted to suggest to her that she say she had a mature palate rather than saying she’d eat anything. But I didn’t.
After all, I wasn’t here to criticize or complain, but to soak up the sights and sounds of a Spring Training baseball game. Even, including the game itself. Or, the parts of it I could see.
I did miss a play at the plate when “Paws” got up to get drinks. His torso timing was perfect in blocking our view of the split-second action at the plate. Ugh, and no Jumbotron replay. Amazingly, “Paws” returned after a bit and, moving back to his seat, once again blocked a play at the plate. Deja vu. Timing is everything.
The game ended tied – something allowed during Spring Training games. We left the ball park slightly frustrated by no winning team, but fulfilled by being winners ourselves with a fun day at the ball park. Our good time was guaranteed from the outset, of course, because for this game our tickets were free.
For many years I shoveled snow in March. Now I apply sunscreen. Glory to this Rite of Spring that gives fans intimate baseball and produces the Boys of Summer. All together now: “PLAY BALL!”
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