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April '04 BASEBALL! |
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A Nice Life Andrew Bomback |
Dave Clapper Joe Lee's Fastball |
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Priceless Elizabeth Ellen
Halfway there, speeding down I-75S at ninety miles an hour because we’re not yet late and I want to keep it that way, I take a peek at her in my rearview mirror. I look at my eight-year old girl, mindlessly singing along with Avril Lavigne because we’ve just finished listening to Nirvana and so it was her turn to pick, and think how lucky she is. No one ever took me to a baseball game. That’s what I’m thinking. You think about these sorts of things a lot once you have a child of your own, about how you got gypped. You think about how maybe you wouldn’t have been such a klutz in gym class if someone had just once taken you out back and thrown you a goddamn ball. Which is, of course, exactly why she spent two hours every morning in July at baseball camp this summer and also why we’re right now headed to Comerica Park in downtown Detroit on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in late August. Things are going to be different for her. If we ever live in Arizona for a year, you can be sure as shit, she’s going to see the goddamn Grand Canyon. Last night, in anticipation of today, we watched “The Bad News Bears” and “The Bad News Bears Go to Japan,” because everything I know about baseball I learned from the movies. But I’m pretty sure all she learned from watching “The Bad News Bears” was how to curse, cause all day today she’s been doling out swears like a drunken sailor. “Mom, I can’t find my damn shoes!” “Mom, the asshole cat just puked on my bed again!” But I let her. I figure the novelty will wear off after a day or two anyway, if I don’t make a big deal about it. And besides, I’m tired of all the political correctness. I’m tired of moms telling me, “Johnny can’t watch Sponge Bob anymore. They use the s-word, you k now- stupid, and stupid is a bad word in our household.” I tell her it’s okay by me if she wants to swear, just make sure Johnny’s mom doesn’t hear, cause she’s retarded; she wouldn’t understand. By now we’re in the city, we’re just about there. We already passed all the cheap parking lots because I didn’t realize how close we were and now that we’re right on top of it, it looks like we’re going to be shelling out twenty bucks to park. But, hey, at least we’re here. We made it. We didn’t get lost and it’s not raining. It’s 75 sunny degrees. Perfect. We cross the street and fall in line behind twenty-five other families and five Boy Scout troupes. There are kids everywhere. You’ve never seen so many kids! All of them running and laughing, with their baseball caps and gloves. They don’t care that Detroit has lost eleven straight games. And neither do we. That’s when I notice the sign. One of the scouts is pointing up at it. Right below “Today: Detroit Tigers Vs. Anaheim Angels” is says “Family Fun Day” in big, red letters. “Hey,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “Look, it’s Family Fun Day.” And I point up at the sign too. Neither of us knows exactly what this means, but it sounds promising. We shrug our shoulders and smile. We’re a family. We like fun. Give us some of that! The game’s already started so we take our time finding our seats. It’s a new stadium and there’s plenty to see. I don’t know if we’re in a baseball stadium or Cedar Point, but I swear we just passed a carousel and a Ferris Wheel. Every few feet there’s a glass case filled with Tiger memorabilia, photographs and histories. We stop and look, just in case one of them mentions her great-great grandpa, Bobby Veach. The cases are arranged by decade, and though I’ve forgotten the exact years he played, I know it was during Ty Cobb’s time, so I look for Ty and then look closer to see if I can find anyone who looks like the one picture I’ve seen of Bobby, hanging on the wall at my in-law’s. I think she’ll be impressed. Finally, after twenty minutes of searching, I spot a picture of a man who looks like it could be him. “Hey, look!” I shout, pulling her arm. “I think I found him. I think this might be your great-great grandpa.” I point to a group shot from the 1920’s. She presses her nose to the glass and cups her hands around her eyes and sort of squints at the picture, at where I’m pointing. “Cool,” she says, nonplussed. “Now can we get a snow cone? Please” We get a snow cone. Red. Before the day is over, we will have bought three more: Green, yellow and blue. We will pee a rainbow. While she shoves overpriced bits of flavored ice into her already reddened mouth, I look for our seats. I look at our tickets, then up at the row numbers, then back down at our tickets. Finally, when it feels like we’ve walked the entire circumference of the stadium at least three times, and she’s complaining that her damn feet hurt and I don’t tell her to quit whining because mine are hurting too, I find them. The stadium’s only half full, but there’s a family of giants seated right in front of our assigned seats. We walk back up the stairs and sit in one of the empty rows. Did I mention neither one of us has ever been to a baseball game before? Neither one of us has ever been to a baseball game before. This is it: our first. And cumulatively we know nothing. Well, not nothing, but close to nothing. Very close. As close as you can get without actually being nothing. Here is what we know: there are two teams, they take turns at bat, three strikes and you’re out, three outs and the other teams up, our team sucks. We don’t know any of our team’s names. In fact, the only baseball players names I do know are Pete Rose (because I went to school in Cincinnati and everyone who has ever lived in Cincinnati knows Pete Rose and Marge Schott), Joe DiMaggio (because he was married to Marilyn Monroe), and Phil and Joe Niekro (because Joe Niekro was my dad’s best friend). There are other names I might know if you said them: the guy Halle Berry was married to for a while, the old guy they made the movie about, but that’s about it. So here we are, at our first baseball game, and neither one of us has a clue what’s going on. But we’re not about to let that stop us from having fun. We watch the people around us, the ones with their faces painted, the ones with those things that make noise in their hands, the ones with a stack of empties at their feet, and do what they do. If they clap, we clap. If they boo and hiss and make the thumbs down gesture, so do we. And when they try and start a wave, we follow along, despite the fact there is no one on either side of us. And when all else fails, we buy more food. You know that credit card commercial that shows the father and son at the baseball game and lists the price of everything they bought and then ends by saying something cheesy like: taking your son to the baseball game and having him think you’re cool: priceless. Yeah, that one. Well, here is my version: -Parking: $20 It’s a close game, but we don’t get our hopes up. We root and cheer like our team has a chance, but we know they’ll probably lose. And we’re okay with that. We keep repeating to ourselves: it’s doesn’t matter who wins, it’s fun just being here together. Then a crazy thing happens. Just as the game is ending, just as it looks like Detroit has lost their twelfth straight game and the fans are beginning to clear the stands, someone comes on the speaker to announce that after the game, any child who waits in line can run the bases. I look behind us. The line has already begun to form. Luckily, it is on our side of the stadium. “Well, do you wanna?” I ask. “Cuz if you do, we better get in line now.” “Um, okay, sure,” she answers, not sounding at all sure, but looking rather excited about the prospect. Her face is all red but I can’t tell if it’s the snow cone or the sunshine or the excitement. I take her hand and pull her up the stairs and claim our place in line. It formed quickly, but we aren’t too far back. There’s maybe twenty, thirty people in front of us. Five minutes later I look behind me and I can’t even see the end of the line. There must be over a hundred people in back of us. This has been our luckiest day ever. The game isn’t officially over, but hardly anyone’s paying attention anymore. Most of the people have either left the stadium to go home or are now waiting in line so their kids can run the bases. There’s a monitor visible just overhead, and since those of us in line have nothing else to do, we look at it now and then while our kids sit cross-legged on the cement or twirl on the metal bars at the top of the stairs. It’s the bottom of the ninth, we’re down by one, we’ve got two outs, one man on base, and our batter has two strikes against him. This looks like it; number twelve. We’re all watching now. Something comes over me, maybe the cumulative excitement, maybe wanting our perfect day to be even perfecter, I don’t know what it is. I’ve not a baseball fan, I’ve never watched a full game of baseball on T.V. Hell, I’m not even from Michigan, but all of a sudden I’m praying for this team to win, praying for a miracle. And just as I’m praying, it happens. We get our miracle. The batter hits that ball so hard and so far I can’t even see where it lands. All I know is the other team didn’t catch it and our two men are running to home plate. We won! Me and the kid are jumping up and down and high-fiving. We’re holding hands and dancing in circles. OUR TEAM WON! OUR TEAM WON! Can you believe it? Did you see it? Everyone’s yelling and screaming like our team just won the goddamn World Series. Before we know it the line’s moving and we’re following the rest of the people down the stairs and under the stadium. We’re moving two by two, one adult per child. Everyone’s happy and holding hands and excited. We pass piles of dirt. We pass what looks like farm equipment. We’re close now. We can see the field through an opening. That’s where the kids have to let go their parent’s hand. “You’re going to run the bases with me, right?” she asks, looking at the field with wide eyes. It looks bigger down here. “No, honey. The kids run the bases and the parents wait for them at the end. You’ll be fine. Just follow the kid in front of you.” She doesn’t look so sure but before she can back out there’s a lady waving her on and a man handing me a coupon for a free kid’s meal at Subway. As I follow the parent in front of me I look up at the big screen overhead and I see her. I see my kid, running the bases on T.V., and I can’t help but smiling like every other proud parent in front of me. And then she’s back. More high-fives. “Did you see me? Did you see me on T.V.?” she asks, panting, sweat running down her flushed face. “I did. You were awesome, baby. I’m so proud of you.” But we don’t have too long to stand and bask in her glory. They’re really moving the kids around. We’re holding things up. I take her hand and pull her up the stairs a final time. On the way to the car we stop at the carousel. They’re giving free rides for Family Fun Day. Most of the people have already gone home so there’s no line and she gets right on. I stand and watch, wishing I’d thought to bring a camera. A mom next to, who probably has everything in her oversized purse, is snapping away. But then I think there are some moments you don’t need documentation to remember. Some moments you just never forget. On the drive home we go over everything again, recanting every exciting detail like an old, married couple who just won their first Bridge tournament. We don’t get many days like this. Some days we fight like cats and dogs. Some days I am “the worst mom ever!” because I’m “ruining [my] life!” But today I’m the “best mom ever” and this is the “best day ever.” Because when you’re eight years old, there is no gray. When you’re eight years old, there is only black and white. And when you’re the mother of an eight year old, you take what you can get. And some moments really are priceless.
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