The Boy's First Ball Game

Actually, we haven't yet been to The Boy's first actual baseball game. But we did spend a lovely hour or so at the ball park yesterday.

Asheville, I was thrilled to discover recently, is home to an A farm team for the Colorado Rockies. Not yet entirely adjusted to no longer living in a Major League city, I was sort of hoping that "A" ranked higher than "AA" and "AAA." I guess I was thinking about something like The A-Team; surely Mr. T wouldn't be a member of the A-Team if the AA-Team was better.

However, Hubby carefully explained to me, in baseball, the A team is, in his words, "one step above the Rookie League." I didn't even know there was such a thing. I guess growing up going to baseball games in a Major League city is sort of like buying your meat at the supermarket; it comes all cut up and inspected and wrapped up in cellophane so you have no idea where it really comes from.

Still, I've always wanted to go to a farm team game and I've never been, unless you count owning Bull Durham on video.

Hubby brought up the idea of taking The Boy to an Asheville Tourists game earlier in the week. (Doesn't the team name just make you want to come visit us? If so, don't read yesterday's post.) Good weather was predicted, we had no other plans, and we're always on the lookout for things to do with The Boy on weekends. Not that we desperately need him to go to school five days a week or anything.

The idea hovered in the air all week, bringing with it no concrete action, like, say, buying tickets. For some reason, I figured this was because we didn't have to worry about getting tickets in advance. We're not talking about Dodger Stadium, after all. It never dawned on me that, while Hubby has many strong points, buying tickets to anything ahead of time is not one of them. ("Do you think we should buy our tickets?" I recall asking one year three weeks before we were supposed to fly to Hawaii for Thanksgiving.)

And so, yesterday, we began our Sunday morning in eager anticipation of the Tourists' 2:00 start time. We ate breakfast, played, and read the paper secure in the knowledge that we had something exciting to do with the rest of our day.

By 11:00, Hubby announced that he was bored.

"We could go to breakfast," I said, as the only member of the family who'd not yet eaten any. Then I thought about the need to fit The Boy's nap in between the present moment and the 2:00 game time. "Except you already ate."

"I can always eat more," Hubby cried eagerly, halfway out the door. Did I mention he was bored?

He was also excited to introduce me to a new cafe downtown, where all the coffee is fair trade, all the food is organic, and there is excellent people-watching to be done by a 15-month-old boy. We settled ourselves at a table that afforded a perfect perch from which The Boy could loudly announce, "Dawh! Dawh!" at the sight of each passing pooch outside the windows.

He even gobbled down a whole sausage patty, making his meat-eating father inordinately proud. But by noon he still didn't seem nap-inclined.

"Let's take a walk and tire him out," Hubby suggested.

We concocted a vague plan. Before the start of the game we needed to: a) get The Boy to nap; b) buy tickets; and c) get some baby sunblock, since I had sent both of the tubes we had to The Boy's school after he broke out in a rash when they put the regular, reasonably priced stuff on him. It was hard enough buying a tube to take to his school at $17.99 for a few ounces; I just couldn't bring myself to purchase the additional one we would obviously need at home.

For some reason, the sunblock shopping was put off until later, and we walked in the direction of the stadium with some vague words about simultaneously tiring The Boy out and buying tickets. Then, I suppose, we were going to walk back to the car and drive around for an hour while The Boy slept before parking the car at the stadium, within walking distance of where it was currently parked. This made perfect sense to us, as do many things that shouldn't, because we are parents.

There is a certain joy you feel sad to know can't last in seeing your child doing his toddler run down sidewalks for the first time. Initially, The Boy carefully held onto my hand, letting go only for detours to every plate glass window that reflected a smiling little boy back at him. Then he got the hang of it and performed a scooting, wide-legged run down the hills, stopping every few steps to right himself or investigate a bottle top or cigarette butt strewn at the side of the road.

We made our way to a deserted playground on the east side of town, where he cheerfully climbed and slid and put wood chips in his mouth. But he still didn't seem all that tired.

"Should we put him in the car and drive him around?" Hubby asked.

I pointed out that we had the Times with us and no need to be at the park by 2:00, since The Boy was unlikely to last a full nine innings, even at an A-team game.

So, back to the car we hiked. We strapped The Boy in and headed in the direction of the stadium. "Where are we going?" I asked Hubby, unsure of what my plan was but fairly certain that we had agreed to do some other things before going to the game.

"I thought we should get tickets now," Hubby answered. It seemed a reasonable suggestion, with just an hour to go before game time. Then, I figured, we could buy sunblock.

To our surprise, the stadium was already bustling with patrons and the buzz of a ballpark on a Sunday afternoon.

"I'm not sure what to do," Hubby said, as we drove by.

"Let me out. I'll get the tickets," I said. By which time we found a parking spot that seemed too good not to take.

Since The Boy was still wide awake and intrigued by this adventure, we grabbed him and headed for the ticket booth together. No sooner had Hubby locked the car doors than a shifty-looking guy sidled up to him.

"Already have tickets?" he asked.

Wow, I thought to myself, not only do games sell out here, but there are actual scalpers.

"No," said Hubby, no doubt thinking something along the same lines.

Without a word, the man held up two tickets. He stared down at them with hooded eyes, avoiding Hubby's gaze.

Hubby reached for them. "Are they--?" he asked.

The man gave a slight wave over his shoulder as he departed, leaving the tickets in Hubby's still outstretched hand.

Unused to small towns and small town A-team ball games, my first thought was that we would be arrested upon presenting the tickets at the turnstile. I am ashamed to admit it, but it's true.

"They're general admission," Hubby said with an apologetic shrug. "He didn't say anything," he added, as if to explain why he took the tickets, why he didn't offer the guy some money for them, why we did not deserve to be arrested.

"If they're only general admission, maybe he had some extra and was just being nice," I said hopefully.

So now we had tickets, a parking space, and a wide-awake boy. "We still don't have sunblock," Hubby pointed out.

"He's wearing his hat," I said, sort of amazed that The Boy hadn't pulled off his little red baseball cap as soon as I put it on. Plainly there were too many sights distracting him.

"You know, we also forgot to bring the camera, and it's his first ball game," Hubby said somewhat sadly.

I agreed this was a shame, but we've been so lousy about taking pictures of The Boy lately that I'm getting used to it. Plus, only videos can capture the joy of him walking and saying "Dawh" and "Cah" (trans. "Dog" and "Car"), and we don't know how to post our videos so others can enjoy them, so I don't bother much with them either.

At any rate, it seemed decided for us. Or, at least, our poor planning skills had made it so. We were going to the ball park with a boy in need of a nap and sunblock, an hour before game time, without so much as a camera to record the event.

It didn't matter once we stepped into the stadium. Even with just a few food stands and a few more beer stands, the ballpark feeling melted over me. I spent two summers as an usher at Dodger Stadium when I was in college and likely absorbed so much hot dog grease that it lies latent in my system until activated by the sights and sounds of a stadium and then bursts forth in a splash of excitement for summer and childhood and the clean lines of a baseball diamond.

We passed under banners featuring famous past players for the Asheville Tourists -- Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Willie Stargell, and Cal Ripken among them. I pointed excitedly at them and felt part of two things at once -- both Major League Baseball with its circuit of big cities featuring huge stadiums and the smaller towns that feed it, home to parks where kids can still line up to have players autograph their gloves.

It turns out the General Admission seats were all in the sun -- and not really seats, just concrete risers where the folks who plan for such things spread out their portable chairs while they hide in the shade waiting for the game to start.

Hubby suggested we might warm someone else's seats in the hopes that they not show up and with the all purpose excuse a baby provides in case they did. So we made our way to some in the back, right next to the McDonald's Family Section that, Hubby pointed out with alarm, is alcohol free. We made a note of seat numbers to make sure we don't sit there if ever we manage to buy tickets ahead of time.

We settled in to the sounds of the announcer and the piped-in music, and the field as close to us in the last row as it is to season ticket holders at Dodger Stadium. The Boy munched on a soft pretzel with relish and watched the other kids with wide, serious eyes. After a while, he got a hang of the place, and left our laps to wander the length of the bench and smile at the man sitting at the end drinking a beer.

The announcement that start time had been delayed by an estimated hour came as we were watching them spread some kind of absorbent dirt over the field in what seemed to me to be a feeble attempt to dry it out after the previous night's rain. It wasn't looking good. Plus, The Boy had just decided it was time for him to sit on the ground and play.

"I'm afraid there are peanut shells down there," said Hubby of the peanut allergy. Not that a few peanut shells on the ground bother him, but his son who we suspect has inherited his allergy and who wanted to sit amongst them and likely put them in his mouth was another story.

"He's never going to take his nap here," I sighed. "And he doesn't care if we see the game or not. Plus, we got in for free," I added.

"I don't mind leaving," Hubby agreed. I think it had more to do with the fact that he could tell himself this didn't count as The Boy's first ball game and thus not feel bad about forgetting the camera than with anything I had said.

So we went home, making one person looking for a parking space almost as happy as our dogs.

I don't know if The Boy's enthusiastic response to his first almost-baseball game makes him more my son or his father's. Hubby, after all, still cares to follow baseball, watches games on t.v., and once even played on a team in his youth. I, on the other hand, have grown to appreciate the atmosphere of the ballpark more than the games. I'll always think of the major league season as it was when I went to Dodgers games with my father -- before realignment, when the play-offs were just five games, and when Marge Schott hadn't yet made me too embarrassed to be a Cincinnati Reds fan.

Whatever the reason, we all three love going to a game, and I know my family will be returning to see the Asheville Tourists play. Maybe we'll even get season tickets.

And when the next Jackie Robinson or Willie Stargell makes it to the major leagues, my son will be able to say he saw them up close when they played for his hometown team in Asheville.