You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Going to the ball Park.
The people. The sight lines. The smells. The sounds. The vendors screaming. The nice fans. The crappy fans.
It all brings me back to the 10 year old of my youth.
Remember that special moment, the first time you walked through the tunnel to see the outfield grass. It was cut so
precisely, colored so green. It was sculpted like a red carpet hairdo.
Today the grounds crew is busy laying the white chalk down the foul line.
The stadium is filled with popular music blaring over the loud speakers.
The sound of vendors echoes off the walls. The smell of ball park food frying on open flames is all around.
On this particular day I am at the Washington Nationals versus the Atlanta Braves. It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Washington DC.
The stadium is a wonderful place to see a game. It is near the Metro subway station which is how the majority of fans arrive.
The subway cars are packed with a crayola box of humanity. But almost everyone is dressed in the red or white jerseys of the Nationals.
Little kids are wearing DC flip flops, and their parents are wearing baseball jerseys with the name Zimmerman on the back.
We go two hours early because I want to inhale the experience.
Any day at the ball park is a good day.
We walk through a gauntlet of street vendors trying to hawk everything from 2 dollar waters to Obama baseball shirts.
We enter the park, greeted by super friendly attendants.
We walk to the center field seats and the usher says “you can go down and take pictures if you want.”
We want and so we walk down the stairs of the completely empty section. The seats are brilliant blue with little metallic baseballs signifying the seat numbers.
This section over looks the visitors bull pen. There is a deep red churt clay for the opposing pitchers to warm up.
Beyond the pen is a beautiful green field and a deep, brilliant blue sky.
We take some pictures and bask in the splendor.
We walk around the periphery.
It’s kid’s jersey day and the first 5,000 kids get a free uniform top. The jerseys are huge and many of the smaller kids are running around like they are wearing long night gowns. They are so cute.
We take the escalator to the upper deck.
We are greeted by the smoky flavor of grilled kielbasas. Delicious.
We go to the foul pole and lean over the fence. The field is so far below us. We watch the grounds crew hose down the infield for the 3rd time.
The score board consumes the entire outfield. A Nationals employee is interviewing children about their favorite players.
We take some pictures and watch the crowd entering the front gates.
We walk to the end of the stadium and admire the Capitol and the Washington monument in the distance. Not many stadiums can boast of such a robust visual that elicits such powerful national pride.
We sit in the beer garden that has lush astro turf and comfortable garden furniture.
Game time is quickly approaching and the stadium is rapidly filling up.
We move to our seats which are between the first base dug out and the right field line.
The sun is out in all its brilliant blue sky splendor now. It is in the low 80’s and I welcome the moments when the sun pokes behind a cloud to provide a little shade. All in all it’s a perfect day for baseball.
The game is sold out, 42,000 screaming Nationals fans.
Sitting to my right is a large white man wearing a beer mug hat on his head. It is 2 feet high, made out of Styrofoam. He is also wearing a big foam finger.
He looks a little absurd. It’s the look he’s going for. He wants to get on TV.
A man behind us asks if he is going to wear this tall Abe Lincoln style beer hat all day.
“It’s gonna ruin my sight lines,” the local DC guy snarls with a fake laugh.
“Is it bothering you,” the beer hat man says in a friendly Australian accent.
The down under accent throws us all off.
I interject, “It’ll help us all get on TV. Let him wear it.”
The guy behind us says “OK, wear it for an inning and get on TV.”
The Australian guy smiles.
It turns out that he is a very nice man, there with his fiance and a tour group of young people from Australia.
They have been in the United States on a world wind tour that in 2 weeks has taken them from Vegas to Miami to Chicago
and now to DC.
In between the group has been to Tallahassee to see Alligators wrestle. The Aussies call them Crocs. They have been to New Orleans and so many cities in such a short amount of time it is hard to imagine getting any lasting memories.
Seeing so many places in America in 2 weeks is sort of like driving 200 miles an hour at Daytona and looking at the faces of the people in the stands. It is probably hard to absorb anything lasting from this high speed blur.
The Australians are all friendly and all seemingly so excited to be here.
They all talk with that throw another shrimp on the Barbie Accent that Australians are famous for.
They are friendly and cordial and can’t buy terrible American ball park beer fast enough.
One of the men comes back with a Miller.
“This one’s not too bad,” He says with a smile.
“Oh it’s bad all right,” i say forcing the group to laugh.
The group doesn’t know anything about American baseball as they ask us many questions.
They are hardy and fun. They sing the national anthem and God Bless America during the 7th inning stretch. They ask about pitchers and closers and what happens if the game is tied.
“Can’t end in a tie,” I say.
“How long could it go?” they ask.
“until someone wins,” I say.
The prospect of watching more than 3 hours of a baseball game seems to make at least some in this group nervous.
Most of the group are wearing Nationals jerseys sporting the name Strasburg, a superstar pitcher for the Nationals. None of them know who he is. But they are excited to learn he is a star who can throw nearly 100 mph.
The group tells us they really enjoy America, but their favorite city so far is Las Vegas.
“It’s America’s favorite city too,” I say with a laugh.
In the morning the group is going New York City. We tell them to take the Staten Island Ferry and to ride the subway and where to get pizza.
They love talking to Americans.
The group drinks a lot and eats a lot. They get up a lot to go to the concession stand and use the restroom a lot.
Sadly, the stadium is not designed with a lot of leg room, so when one person gets up, the entire row gets up.
One particularly ugly DC couple sitting on the end of the row grows more and more angry.
The wife with the huge boil on her foot slams her plastic seat each time she must stand and another person walks by.
She is East coast nasty and reeks of negativity.
Her husband is a sweaty fat guy who all ready yelled at one man for taking a picture of his wife.
“Hey guy, lighten up,” the picture taking husband says. “It’s just one picture.”
“Yeah well it’s just one game,” the fat sweat bag yells back.
The picture taking husband and wife move down the aisle appalled at the man’s grotesque harshness.
“Not all Americans are like that,” we tell the Australians.
The game ends 3-2, the braves winning. There are a few Braves fans around us who do the tomahawk chop. The angry woman with the big boil on her foot yells at them to shut up and quit singing the Florida State fight song.
I will not miss this couple. They are ugly Americans right here in America.
I say good bye to the Australians and wish them a fun trip in NYC.
The stadium is filled with Bob Marley’s timeless classic,
“Every little thing is gonna be all right.”
And true to the song, everything is all right.
We hit the subway station and like packed sardines of red and white jerseys we head home back to the burbs.
It is easy. It is fun. It is a memorable day.
Take me out to the ball game.
And that is crazy.