Take Me Out to the Ballgame

The end of March always leaves me with a little sadness as the college basketball season comes to an end, but my melancholy is quickly replaced by the smell of cut grass, mustard, peanuts and beer. Spring training is winding down as teams report to their home cities and the Boys of Summer will take the field and slug it out 162 times from Tuesday thru October. Despite baseball's recent bloody nose, there are many, many reasons to sit back and enjoy what this season has to offer.

Baseball began its hold on me at the age of 5 when I was signed by the Murrell's Inlet Pirates t-ball team. I'd like to believe that our team's sponsor Drunken Jacks, who would provide me with a symbol for my adult life, saw potential in my lanky arms, gazel-like strides and my ability to move right-to-left with the fluidity of Andrew Sullivan. However, in reality it had more to do with the fact that I was one of only five kids on the team that didn't spend half the game digging in the dirt.

Donning #12, I tore up the Southern League in most non-statistical categories and I was the only boy on the team without a mullet. Unfortunately, these times would be short-lived as I was traded to the Northeastern League (Northern New Jersey) due to a uniform violation (appearantly I played an entire game with my zipper down).

That year, my father took me to take me to my first major league baseball game at the house that Ruth built--Yankee Stadium. Later in life as a diehard Mets fan I grew to loathe the Yankees, however at that time I was in complete awe as we sat down amongst the 40,000-plus New York faithful to watch the Yanks beat the Red Sox 6-5.

The highlight of the game occurred when Ricky Henderson jumped over the wall to rob Dwight Evans of a homerun. I didn't think such things were possible, so naturally I concurred with the overweight New Yorker behind me when he said, "I can't @#$&* believe that he @#*&# caught that #@&%^$ ball!!!" I turned around and nodded in agreement.

Later in the game, that same gentlemen who was apparently upset with Don Mattingly for striking out, yelled, "Don, you dirty mother-@&^@#$ rat! Take your dumb, ugly @#$ outta here and @#(&$ walk into oncoming @#^$$% traffic!" This man was an infinite source of material that I could recycle for months on the bus ride to school.

(Mom, Dad, if you are reading this, skip to the end) Fastforwarding to high school, my friends and I would cut school to go to the Vet for Phillies day games. The Vet wasn't exactly known for its atmosphere; instead of smelling cut grass, mustard, peanuts and beer, there was an aroma of vomit, urine and cheeze wiz soaked into the astroturf. We used to think that Lenny Dysktra wizzed in centerfield between innings to keep the rats from biting at his heels.

Yet, the most colorful part of going to Phillies games was not their delightful stadium, but their ever-so-charming fans. In a effort to make Yankees fans blush, while in the process ensuring that no child under the age 12 would ever be able to attend a game, I witnessed countless profanity-laced, verbal encounters that usually ended in fist-fights. One game featured a full riot as two rival high schools battled over who got to eat John Kruk's left-over, chew-tabacco.

Another incident took place on a stormy Saturday game that cleared out most all but a few as the Phillies were manhandling the Expos 6-1 in the 6th inning. The constant drizzle and entrance of Bobby Munoz to relieve Curt Schilling set the scene for one of my favorite Philly fan moments ever. Some very drunk man put his own spin on a popular Philadelphia cheer/heckle that went, "Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum -- (enter players name here) is a freakin' bum." A perfect storm converged as Bobby Munoz proceeded to give up 7 earned runs. As the 400 remaining fans booed until they were blue in the face, this guys stood up, wearing a black trashbag for a pancho with a full beer in each hand and yelled, "Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum! *hiccup* Bobby Munoz is a *hic* F----n' a--hole!"

So, baseball officially starts in two days and I can hardly contain myself.