Buy Me Some Peanuts and . . .

Take me out to the ball game

Take me out with the crowd

Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks

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

I love baseball.  It has been a joy to live in an area where I have the opportunity to watch America’s pastime each summer.  With the Billings Mustangs—the Cincinnati Reds rookie team in the Pioneer League--located here, I get to see quite a few games between June and August the past four summers.  And, I have enjoyed every one of the games . . . but now I enjoy them even more.

You have not experienced a baseball game until to attend one with a nearly year old granddaughter.  This summer I have had the opportunity to attend two games with the granddaughter and baseball has never been the same.  Baseball with a nearly one-year-old is an adventure!

First thing anyone needs to know about baseball and one-year-olds is that you do not watch too much baseball.  Little kids at that age don’t have the attention span to watch a baseball game beyond the first pitch.  Little kids that age are easily distracted by anything and everything around them . . . especially other people.  Little kids that age don’t sit still . . . they wiggle, squirm, sway, clap, grab, jump, and dance.  Little kids that age scream . . . or say, “Mama” or “Dada” a lot . . . or just make noises . . . not so much to communicate, but to hear themselves.  Little kids that age seem like bottomless pits . . . constantly wanting food or something to drink.  Shoot!  It is like going to a baseball game with a teenager . . . only in a smaller package.

Second thing about going to a baseball game with a nearly one-year-old is that a person can do it alone . . . it takes an army.  We have nicknamed our granddaughter “Cracker Jacks” as she gets passed around a lot at the ballgames.  She goes from Mama to Nana to Daddy to Grandpa back to Nana to Mama to Daddy to Grandpa . . . over and over and over again.  Remember, nearly one-year-olds have the attention span of gnat, easily get bored, and are constantly moving.  It is the only way to keep her entertained and happy because if the granddaughter ain’t happy, ain’t going to be anyone happy within three sections of the stadium.  It is best to keep the granddaughter happy.

Which brings us to the third thing . . . lots of walking.  Since the granddaughter has started going to baseball games, I do a lot more walking during the game . . . usually around and around the stadium . . . but, hey, I’m getting my exercise.  The walking is because the granddaughter can no longer be content, is getting unhappy, and is warming up the vocal chords to let everyone know.  To avoid a complete meltdown, Grandpa walks the child.  I scoop her up and we take a grand tour of the stadium.  I think that this is one of the highlights of the game for me . . . it is amazing how many compliments one gets when his or her granddaughter is cute.  Good for the self-esteem.

So, around and around we go.  I point out the important things she needs to learn.  I show her where the bouncing hut is for when she gets older . . . I point out where the restrooms are for when she gets beyond the diaper stage . . . show her where the concession stands are . . . where the gift shop is . . . I even show her the field in case she ever wants to actually watch the game . . . I introduce her Homer Mustang—the team mascot—which scares her more than entertains her.  I can understand where she is coming from . . . it is not every day that one encounters a great big stuffed animal walking around the ball park scaring little kids.  All the while she points, hugs, coos, babbles, hugs some more, and hangs on for the ride.

I don’t get to watch much baseball when the granddaughter comes along. But, that is okay.  That is okay because I remember another little girl who I used to drag to baseball games . . . she was a lot like the granddaughter. I remember taking a lot of walks around the stadium with her too.  Her short-term nickname was “Cracker Jack” as she got passed around a lot between her mother and I.  She grew to have a great appreciation and love for baseball in time . . . and, she loves to go to the games.  She grew to be a beautiful young woman who—with her husband’s help—graced our lives with a granddaughter . . . a granddaughter we drag to the games.  In time she will hopefully come to love the game as much as her grandpa and mother do. 

It is a mere inconvenience for the time being to sacrifice a few games to share my love with the newest member of the family . . . besides, they always put the results in the newspaper the next day.  Even though I am at the games and don’t get to see much of them, I don’t miss them that much.  I have discovered something better . . . time with my granddaughter sharing the moment with one another.  It isn’t so much about the game as it is the moment of being in one another’s presence.  The games will come and go, but these moments with my granddaughter only happen once . . . I cherish them.  As the credit card commercial states, “Priceless!”  It took my granddaughter to show me what was important about a ball game . . . the people.  Of course, I like my peanuts and Cracker Jacks . . . even the newest “Cracker Jack”—my granddaughter.  In those moments . . . “I don’t care if I ever get back” . . .

Evil Empire or . . .

. . . damn Yankees.  In a recent court case judges have ruled that the phrase “Evil Empire” belongs to the New York Yankees.  The so-called “Evil Empire” moniker started out as an insult by their archrivals’ team president, Boston Red Sox president Larry Lucchino in 2002.  Trademark judges ruled that an entrepreneur cannot register the phrase for business purposes as it belongs to the Yankees . . . by default.  The judges confirmed, once and for all, that . . . “The record shows that there is only one EVIL EMPIRE in baseball and it is the New York Yankees.”

Duh!  I have been a lifetime fan of the Baltimore Orioles—a league mate of the Yankees, and have known that this designation of their team was appropriate.  Apologies to the Star Wars franchise.  The term, widely used by fans and the media, to describe the Yankees and their stockpiling of superstars and dominance in the sport fits.  No one is arguing that . . . especially anyone who roots for any team but the Yankees in the American League East Division.  This one is a gimme!

Being a Baltimore Orioles fan I have never really thought of the Yankees as being the “Evil Empire” . . . nope, they have always been those “damn Yankees” . . . always.  I cannot stand the Yankees, and that is putting it mildly.  I’ll even root for the National League representative in the World Series before I root for the Yankees.  I think that my sentiments are held by many American League fans.  In fact, I blame those damn Yankees for the years of futility that my beloved Birds endured when the owner of the Orioles decided to try a Steinbrenner and buy a team to be competitive with those damn Yankees.  That was nearly two decades ago and the Orioles are finally pulling themselves out of the basement with good ol’ fashion Birds baseball—using the farm system.  Damn Yankees!

For me, they will always be the “damn Yankees”.  Maybe it is a generational thing, but one thing that every generation of Yankee hater will tell you . . . they are evil.  There have only been two Yankee players that I have ever appreciated . . . Thurman Munson and Yogi Berra . . . both catchers.  Thurman was the anti-Yankee Yankee player who died way too young.  Yogi . . . well, he speaks in such a way that I understand him . . . he makes sense and doesn’t take himself too seriously.  I like catchers and these were two of the best . . . it is just too bad they were damn Yankees!

It is good that the courts finally confirmed what the rest of us already knew . . . the damn Yankees are the Evil Empire.  We can all rest assured that what we assumed is true . . . Accordingly to the papers, the Yankees declined to comment on the case.  There has been a disturbance in the “force” . . . where is Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo when need them?  Damn . . . Yankees!

Twisted

The minor league baseball season has begun . . . the Billing Mustangs (Rookie League affiliate of the Cincinnati Reds) are in full swing . . . and I am nearly in heaven!  I enjoy baseball and having a minor league team in the area is a perfect diversion to “life” on a daily basis.  I enjoy the game, the crowds, and all of the weird little “rituals” that accompany it . . . even if others cannot comprehend or understand.  I say this because I apparently fall into that category of weird little “rituals”.

Recently the wife told me that her diehard Mustangs fans (guys who have been going to the games for decades as season ticket holders) in her church are a little perplexed with me.  They don’t understand me . . . especially when it comes to baseball.  They just don’t get my baseball ritual, but have kindly refrained from qualifying me as weird—eccentric, maybe, but they are too nice to call me weird . . . or even twisted.  After all, they are good Christians and the wife is their minister.  Thus they just tell her they are a little perplexed at my “ritual”.

 My ritual?  Well, it all involves baseballs.  I collect batting practice balls before the game.  I started doing that after the family and I attended our first Mustangs game four years ago and found a ball lying in the grass by the stadium.  Ever since then it has been a part of my routine whenever I go to a game.  I like to arrive early and see how many baseballs I can find and pick up.  So far, in a little over three seasons and the start of this season, I have found 48 baseballs.  In the two games I have attended this season I have found 12 . . . at this rate I should shatter my record and double the number of baseballs I have stashed away in my office closet.  Sounds a little weird, doesn’t it?  And this is what these gentlemen don’t understand . . . and, to be honest, I am not sure I really understand either.  In a way, it is kind of twisted. . .

 . . . but I will try to explain.  The simplest explanation is that I get off of work at 4:00PM—batting practice begins at 4:00PM—the gates into the stadium don’t open until 6:00PM for a 7:05PM game start—that is two hours that I need to kill before I can actually get into the stadium.  What better way to spend it than walking around the stadium picking up balls hit out of the field?  Besides, the wife frowns on me sitting down at the local breweries sampling the many fine microbrews for two hours.  Because of that I spend my time working on my tan, cardiovascular system, and collecting errant baseballs . . . 48 and counting.  It keeps me out of trouble.

I can see how this looks peculiar to lots of folks.  A later middle-aged guy, with a slight pot belly, standing in the grass beyond the stadium fence waiting for baseballs to magically appear.  I suppose those the stadium workers have determined that I am some sort of local eccentric –the old fart—who has obsessive compulsive disorder.  I notice that they usually take a wide berth around me when walking by.  They probably think that I am twisted.  As I said earlier, it keeps me out of trouble, and the wife always knows where I am.  That is the simplest explanation—it is something to do while waiting for the game to start.

 Another reason that I probably enjoy collecting these wayward baseballs has to do with economics.  Yeah, I said economics.  A baseball—whether used in the game or batting practice—costs an average of four dollars.  Once a baseball leaves the field—whether during a game or batting practice—it is fair game.  Anyone can pick it up and have it for him or herself.  Over a season I will spend an average of seven dollars for a ticket for the privilege of attending a game.  At the game I will have to spend $2.50 for a hot dog (usually two), $3.50 for a beer (usually two), and another $2.50 for an ice tea for a grand total of $14.50.  For approximately $21.50, I get the pleasure of attending Mustangs baseball.  I figure as a many four dollar baseballs I can get for free is a nice compromise.  Right now I figure I am about five bucks ahead for the season—hey, that is two hot dogs!  Twisted?  Maybe, but it does make sense . . . they are free souvenirs.

Also, on the economic lines, I had children who played baseball growing up and we went through a lot of baseballs.  The children are now grown up and beginning to have children of their own—some of which might play baseball.  To play baseball you have got to have baseballs.  I want to be known as the grandparent with all the balls—baseballs, that is.  At the rate I am going I should have enough baseballs to last me into the great, great grandchildren.  Their parents will thank me later.

 

The above paragraph kind of answers the other question that these gentlemen were wondering about, which is: What is he doing with all those baseballs?  Obviously they are for future generations of the family to enjoy without ever having to worry about having to spend a penny to get.  Right now, as I said earlier, they are just stacking up in the closet in my office.  I have to be careful opening the closet door so that I don’t create a baseball avalanche.  The headline would look terrible in the paper: Local Minister Killed in Baseball Avalanche!  The community would wonder what sort of crazy guy the wife was married to.  

Other ideas of what to do with all these baseballs have crossed my mind over the years.  I have thought about starting a baseball compost pile in the backyard—at least it wouldn’t smell like a regular compost pile.  I have thought about nailing two 2X4’s to my office wall and then putting plexy glass between them—then drop the balls between the glass and wall to create a “baseball wall”.  I have thought about putting them all in the bed of my truck, opening the tailgate, and driving down the highway to see how long it would take to empty it out.  The wife—and eventually my own common sense—nixed all of those ideas.  So, in the meantime, they sit in the closet.

Am I weird . . . eccentric . . . a little twisted?  All because I like to collect loose balls before the start of a baseball game.  Maybe . . . maybe not.  It all depends on who you ask.  Why do I do this?  Because I can.  Because it makes me happy.  And, because it gives everyone something to talk about.  When it comes to being twisted it is all a matter of one’s perspective.  With that in mind I give you this closing song by Joni Mitchell to consider:

 

Play ball!