The Place

There were not bobble heads or miniature bats as giveaways when I was a kid.  Just metal benches and blaring sun.  By the end of baseball season, I was so black that I couldn’t see my own hand in the moonlight. 

I hated the heat. 

But, I’ll take the sweltering hot over just above freezing any day when there’s baseball involved.  There’s something wonderful and totally American about the ballpark on a hot Summer’s day.  Just at the right moment there’s always a breeze.  Even in the middle of a metropolis the wind swoops in like a nose dive of air conditioning specifically to revive the weary fans.   As bottoms begin to wiggle in fatigue from the non-conforming seats of the 21-inch space, excitement looms throughout the park. 

It doesn’t matter where you’re seated or which stadium you’re in, you are amongst your kin in a ballpark.  White men in suits start to dismantle their business armor as they reach for a cold beer and place their phones on silence.   Husbands and wives with small children organize their gear as they settle into their ticketed zones.  

Todays, ballparks boast about hometown flavor and fare, but the lingering smells of peanuts and popcorn permeates like an aroma therapy plug-in for sports addicts.  From New York to San Francisco, true fans will always consume a hot dog, peanuts, or popcorn and a beer as talismans for their favorite team.  The stadium is never truly in the shape of a sphere.  But somehow it feels like being encircled amongst spectators in the Colosseum while witnessing the impressive athleticism of the Gladiators on the field by the “Boys of Summer”.   

There’s no need to leave your seat for more beer or food.  There’s always a guy or gal yelling annoyingly in the aisle peddling treats aligned on their person in the most disturbing manner.  Yet, if you have a large bladder, that seat becomes your home and like a good neighborhood, a relationship is established with whomever is seated beside you.  I met and fell in love with my husband while seated behind home plate at Nationals Stadium.  This is truly a magical place.  

Unsettling organ music blares over the sometimes-outdated PA system as the 7th Inning stretch approaches.  Lines begin to form in the corridors leading to the restrooms and the concession stands.  The anticipation of witnessing a goofy kiss cam moment or a cute kid falling asleep in an oversized ball cap on the jumbotron is worth the wait of the crowd shuffle Malay.  As blistering daylight begins to succumb the emergence of a sultry evening is then accented by the stadium’s suddenly beaming lights.  The appearance of nightfall is bittersweet depending on the scoreboard.  As the end of the game grows close, the resurgence of blood flow to all parts of the lower body is reason enough to celebrate.  Before joining in single file to exit this place, one final glimpse of the flags swaying in the wind and another memory is saved in the database of nostalgia and favorite things.

Covid-19  denied me entry to THE PLACE.  2020  is the very first year that I haven't donned any player gear.  My Willie McCovey Jersey remains hanging in my closet's athletic wear section.  The ball caps bin remains undisturbed.  To my surprise, I have enjoyed baseball as much as I did going to the ballpark.  The games have seemed more intense than before whenever I watched on television.  Perhaps it's the surround sound of my headphones or just the fact that the players delivered at every viewing.  Somehow, even through the television, I've discovered that The Place seemed more magical than ever this year.  Maybe the magic of the place is not in the steel beams and aluminum walls.  But in the hearts of the players and the fans.