I went to the baseball game Sunday. I arrived at about the third inning. It was one of those days when one was either inside wanting to be outside, or outside never wanting the day to go away. I didn’t feel guilty sitting stagnant on the first base line. I doubt anyone did.
There seemed to be an energy in the air. The guys sitting close by were laughing, each taking turns shouting obscenities to the opposition, Florida International. The batter in the on-deck circle was the helpless prey. He swung his bat as if he could not hear. The hecklers were informative. They had a sheet of paper with information about each player’s personal details and stats.
They referenced it.
“So why’d you transfer from Miami,” one said. “Were you not good enough?”
They asked informative questions.
“Fuentes, is that a family name?”
They held nothing back.
“You’re making your family really proud with a swing like that.”
It was pretty amusing. Especially alongside encouragement from pacifists.
“You’re OK on the inside.”
Well, I suppose heckling doesn’t make much sense when your team is down. They left during the fifth inning as the visitors scored four runs. I thought the hecklers might come back once Western did, but no. The game must have bored them. With all the loud music and cheerleading noise, how could they have become bored? It’s not like a baseball game by itself could be enough to occupy a person’s dissatisfied mind.
Big Red seemed to be having a good time. It danced around, hugged children, put its arm around older women. It kissed Eileen and then put her head in its mouth. Greg told Big Red, “I love you.” He pressed his finger to Big Red’s nose and told it how cute it was. Big Red sat with us until the end of the inning. Then, Big Red gave us all high fives and trotted to other children.
Moments later, on the edge of the walkway by the seats, some fingers bloomed from beneath. My friends called the little boy, “Fingers.” The boy twiddled and wiggled and we laughed. Fingers brought grass and rocks and a ball and mitt from beneath, planting them on the walkway. Some of my friends spoke with Fingers saying “Fingers, you’re the coolest.” and “I love you, Fingers.” Others noticed Fingers and all his beauty. One man took pictures. Eventually, Fingers came up the steps in his little boy form and said, “hello.” Then he grabbed his ball and mitt and ran off with a friend.
As the game persisted, friends left, perhaps realizing they had something else to do. It was the seventh inning. Florida International had just scored three runs in the top of the inning. They were louder in their dugout than they had been the whole game. The score was Florida 9, Western 6. Now, the seventh inning stretch. The one thing we can all count on at a baseball game. We all stood, but instead of “Take me out to the Ball Game” the sound engineers decided to play Neil Diamond’s 1969 hit, “Sweet Caroline.” Like Nelly Kelly, Mandy yelled at the press box.
“Take Me Out To The Ball Game!”
Everyone stared at her. She yelled again.
“Take Me Out To The Ball Game!”
And then she nudged me and told me we would sing it ourselves. And so we did. Ah, but the game continued like nothing happened and our last two lines were interrupted. We sat down. It was a one-two-three inning as it went into the eighth. More friends left to make the 4 o’clock scramble at Sonic. One, two, three. Western came up to bat in the bottom of the eighth. I sat at the edge of my seat. I didn’t hear the music or any of the other trash coming out of the loud speakers. It didn’t matter.
Matt Bracken drew a leadoff walk. Matt Hightower tripled to center, Bracken scored, 9 to 7. Matt Payton grounded out, Hightower scored, 9 to 8, one out. We needed just one more run. The crowd was quiet. I could feel each person sitting on the edge of their seats.
Leadoff batter Scott Kaskie singled. Terrence Dayleg tripled to the gap in right-center, Kaskie scored, 9 to 9. Florida International was in trouble with a man on third and one out. They would have to try to set up a double play so Dayleg could not score. Chad Cregar was intentionally walked. But when Wade Gaynor chopped a double just inside the third-base bag, their efforts were futile and Dayleg scored, 10 to 9.
It was almost foul and Florida International’s coach argued the call briefly and dispassionately. As he walked back to the dugout, he seemed not disappointed with the game, but with the season. I hoped he hadn’t forgotten the philosophy of baseball. One game at a time, one run at a time, one out at a time. You fight for everything like it determines the season. Western’s eighth inning hit parade showed tenacity. It was just enough for us to win the game as reliever Adam Balcom closed the ninth inning.
Baseball has seen its changes over the years. It’s far from the way I remember it as a hopeful kid, wearing a Cal Ripken Jr. jersey and always wearing a cup and mitt. But it is what you make it, what I make it as a 20-year-old writing student. A baseball game has its characters and its unpredictable plot, like any of my favorite stories. And sitting on the edge of my seat on the first base line, I am a part of the tradition.
The tradition that extends through the 20th century, and the unofficial anthem that extends about just as long: “When the score was just two to two, Nelly Kelly knew what to do, Just to cheer up the boys she knew. She made the gang sing this song: Take me out to the ball game, Take me out on to the crowds; Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, I don’t care if I never get back. Let me root, root, root for the home team, If they don’t win, it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out, at the old ball game.”
The opinions expressed in this commentary do not reflect those of the Herald or the university.
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