Recently my family and I attended a Major League Baseball game. The goal then is to compare our experiences to those of the guys who put together that hokey little song they sing during the seventh-inning stretch.
Not God Bless America. The hokey little one.
“Take Me Out to the Ballgame…”
Take not just me, also take my wife, my toddler daughter, and my infant son, none of whom have lasted through an entire baseball game in their lives, and any two of which will be whining to leave at any point after the national anthem.
And not just any ballgame. Take me out to see the Cleveland Indians and Pittsburgh Pirates. The Pirates haven’t won more than they’ve lost since 1992, the longest futility streak in all of professional sports. Ever. The Indians have won 2 World Series total, none since 1948. It will be 93 degrees today.
Suddenly this sounds more like a community service requirement. But still, I love baseball, so, yes, I agree with the guys. Take me out to the ballgame.
“Take me out with the crowd…”
And what a crowd it is today. The Pittsburgh baseball stadium has more filled seats than empty three times a year…(1) Opening Day, (2) when they’re giving away a Bobblehead of somebody important like the Dalai Lama or Willie Stargell, and (3) when a team from the other league is in town and they’re either good or nearby. Cleveland qualifies as nearby. A crowd of 29,845 witnessed this Clash of the Titans. Or Crash of the Titanic.
And we all stood in the same cotton candy line. When I got up, the Cotton Candy Guy was in Section 999, Row ZZZ. But sometime in the 2 full innings that it took the line to move, he had ventured into our area.
“Why didn’t you text me?” I asked my wife, trying to act all 21st-Centuryish.
“I did.”
Interesting. My cell phone must be set to Gentle Vibrate, otherwise I should have felt something. Next time it will be set to Strong Vibrate, Jackhammer, Rumpshaker, or Shredded Underwear. Won’t miss another cotton candy text.
Still, I’ve been to April games in Pittsburgh where my party are the only people in the whole section, and that felt like Siberia. So, despite the inconveniences caused by having a big crowd (including the fat lady in our row who got up 14 times), I once again agree with our songwriters. Take me out with the crowd.
“Buy me some fish tacos and a 7-dollar beer in a plastic cup…”
…is I’m pretty sure how it goes. Look, nobody does anything with Cracker Jack except improperly adding an S to it. I’m going against the guys here…you’ll have to buy me something other than peanuts and Cracker Jack. Or just don’t buy me anything. We can eat afterwards. At a saloon.
“I don’t care if I ever get back…”
Good, because the first inning alone took 42 minutes. Plus our parking lot –with the 10,000 other cars– had only one exit. I was beginning to think my last meal was to be Goobers and Cinnamon Nuts. Regardless, the prevailing sentiment is of sports as an escape. I can boil my skin in the sun of a 3-hour ball game between two last place clubs with no food, then boil my blood in traffic afterwards, and of course it still beats the best day at work. So, once again we go with the gents here. I don’t care if I ever get back.
“Let me root, root, root for the home team…”
Obviously. Unless you’re from, you know, out of town or something. Then you root for the Away team and if you’re in Philadelphia, you probably get murdered.
“If they don’t win, it’s a shame…”
17 shameful years in Pittsburgh and counting.
“For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game.”
How did they manage to encapsulate my dating life in 13 words? Regardless, you have to hand it to the game of baseball for having rules so simple you can summarize them in one line of a whimsical song. You have to hand it also to the songwriters for choosing to romanticize the 3 Strikes You’re Out rule over the Infield Fly Rule.
Yes, my friends, Take Me Out to the Ballgame stands the test of time. Even when it’s the Pirates.