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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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Pastime Scott Neumyer
A friend of mine, who was old enough to be my father, invited me to a minor league baseball game. It was perfect baseball weather. When we reached the stadium I thought we’d find our seats and wait until the game started, but after getting our tickets ripped and walking up the stairs to the concourse area, I followed my friend as he led me around the building. It was small and intimate, nothing like the big ballparks. “It’s about the family here,” he told me. “I got my season tickets when they first opened, about five years ago,” he said. “Two seats, right behind the owners.” “You can’t get better seats than that,” I said. “Unless you’re the owners.” We both laughed and he nodded in agreement. “I used to bring my dad here.” “Oh,” I said and looked out onto the field busy with men raking and laying chalk for the baselines. We kept walking around by the concessions. “I’m hungry,” he said. “You want something?” “No, thanks,” I told him. “I ate on the way to your house.” “You can eat at a ballgame,” he said. “I know,” I said and stood behind him in line as he ordered a pork sandwich. “How about a beer?” He placed the sandwich on the beer cart. “My treat.” “No, really. I’m good for now.” “You sure?” “Yeah, I’m good.” He grabbed his beer and his sandwich and we found our seats, two rows from the field, right behind the owners. The men finished raking the field. It looked clean, like a new plate waiting for dinner. I sat through the first pitch ceremonies and watched my friend eat his pork sandwich out of the corner of my eye. He seemed pleased with it and washed the food down with a guzzle of beer. After a few innings the score was in our favor and we sat back in our chairs and watched as the home team thrilled the crowd with a homerun. It was then that I noticed that my friend’s beer cup was empty. “I’m going to get something to drink,” I said. “You want anything?” “No,” he told me. “I’ll get something in a few innings. Besides, this is my treat. A little thanks for your help during the season, when everything happened and I couldn’t be there.” He reached for his wallet, but by the time I imagine he’d turned around to hand me some money, I was gone. I came back down the aisle as the home team turned a double play to end the inning. My friend was already standing and clapping so I squeezed past him to my seat as everyone sat back down. “Thirsty?” he asked as he noticed a beer in each of my hands. “Not really,” I said and handed him a beer because I knew it was what he wanted. “A toast,” I said, “to baseball.” “To baseball,” we said and we tapped our cups and drank until they were empty and the game was over and I knew my friend was happier than he’d been in a while.
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