View from the Cheap Seats
By Karlsie
As John Fogerty once said, "Hold the phone, the sun came out today. We're born again there's new grass on the field." If there was ever a game that deserved to be a "Centerfield" kind of game - yesterday's makeup game with the Orioles was truly it.
It started with me telling my 13 year old he had to go to school. While I could have been the cool mom and let him come with me, I reminded him that school comes first, packed his lunch and sent him on his way. Besides, this was MY day to play hooky, and I wasn't doing it with my son in tow.
Just after I left the house, I realized that I had left my cap sitting on my desk and the sun was coming out. I figured, as a peace offering to my son, I'd pick up the green "Tessie" cap (he started calling the green caps that after the video came out last year) on my way in.
Like most fans, you always look for superstitious signs of how a game may go and the great computer SNAFU that left most of us caught between the gate and the turn styles for 20 minutes until they could reset the computer did not seem to be a good portent. However, most of us in the front tried to make the best of it - as did the "I work for tips" talent. The juggler, realizing he was playing to an empty street walked up to our gate and began performing, pulling kids past the turn styles to assist them and then pushing them back to join their parents.
Once in, I did the one thing I feel is a big part of the game experience: I headed to canvas alley to see if I could get a couple of signatures on the cap for my son - just to complete the offering. Unfortunately, I did the ultimate klutz thing. Slipping on the wet concrete, I went down, hard, on my backside. Immediately two ushers were at my sides helping me up to make sure I was OK. I gave my usual reply in such situations, "Nothing's hurt but my pride."
First out was Bronson Arroyo, sporting his new braids, who apologized as he ran past us and back into the dug out. Next out were Alan Embree and John Halama to practice a little out by the bull pens.
On the way in, Alan stopped to sign a kid's ball and the feeding frenzy began. One kid had a pen and wanted his glove signed, I know from experience that ball points and gloves don't work too well - my younger boys got their gloves signed at spring training in 2003 and we had to go over it with a sharpie later so that it wouldn't wear off. I handed the kid's dad my sharpie and said, "Make sure he signs the outside, not the inside, so it doesn't wear off." The kid gave me a big, "Thanks!" and stuck the glove and sharpie out.
Embree signed the kid's glove and ball before moving to our side of the media walkway. He signed the brim of my hat just as Hazel Mae began walking towards the media chute.
"Hazel, sign my shirt" someone called out. Surprised, she gladly did so, calling out, "Hey Alan, I'm signing too!"
He laughed, but remembering my 13 year old and his penchant for Hazel, Tessie and Rachael Ray, asked her to sign the hat as well - which she gladly did.
Then came John Halama. (Or, as my son likes to say, "John Halamalamalama" in a meditative monotone.) Initially he was a bit hesitant but once he started signing, he stayed with the crowd the longest. He signed just above Embree on the bill of the cap and I knew my work was done. I gave a call into the teacher's aide in my son's room to tell him, "Let Mr. Pi know that if he gets all his homework done by the time I get home, I have a surprise for him - a signed cap."
One of the older ushers near the first base boxes took a look around to see if "Tessie" was near by to sign for him too, but she was off in other parts of the park working. It was getting late and I headed up to my seat in the back of the grandstands behind first base. It was a good seat to watch the game from, but a bit narrow. By the end of the third inning, my backside was feeling the pain of my hurt pride and I decided to move forward. I managed to get a couple of innings in a box seat that had been left vacated in favor of the beer line before I saw my new friend - the usher who had checked for Tessie for me. I told him that my backside was starting to hurt from the spill I took and he told me I could sit in the folding chairs behind the field boxes behind first for a while.
I realized I've grown so used to the bleachers and right field grand stands, that I forgot how much I love being that close to the field. You aren't quite in the middle of the "Balco, Balco…" chants when Sosa was up, but you can still hear them loud and clear. In fact, I can't imagine how much focus these guys have when you're facing down 90+ mph pitches while people are yelling, "'roids baby, 'roids…" or "You ain't hittin' home runs without the stew - need some juice Balco Boy?" loud and clear.
Of course, I believe that part of the reason the O's failed to capitalize after Gibbons' HR in the second was it has to be demoralizing to have the fan who caught your ball in the bleachers throw it back onto the field. (Whoever threw it had enough on it to get it into the infield from the bleachers - maybe we should think about inviting them to spring training next year.) Last time I saw these two play live was in Baltimore where the stadium staff had to keep flashing "Let's make some noise" on the scoreboard in a failed attempt to try and drown out the Sox fans yelling, "Let's go Red Sox" that echoed through Camden Yards.
In the end, it was a couple of things that stood out about the game overall. Being in the handicap seats, I was next to a woman in a wheelchair who was probably my mom's age reaction to Renteria's 9th inning bunt. She asked if was a "dribbler" or a real bunt - as she couldn't see over the people who jumped up. I told her it was a real bunt.
"Good," she said, it's about time someone in the major leagues learned how to do that.
In the end, with two outs and two on base and two strikes on Big Papi at the bottom of the ninth and the woman in front me practically in tears because it looked like we were going to lose by a run, when Ortiz let loose with the three run walk off homer to win it. We were jumping up and down and on the chairs screaming as if we had just won the World Series all over again.
I called home and my 13 year old was, "I saw it, I saw it! Did you really get me a signed hat? Who signed it?"
As the other song says, "We aren't here to mess around - Boston you know I love you madly hear the crowd roar to your sound."
There was new grass on the field and, at least for Big Papi, a chance to hit the ball and touch them all for a moment in the sun.
