I am not a sports guy. Not good at 'em, don't like watching 'em, basically bored by ‘em. I have been able to tolerate baseball in the past (playing and watching) so when dad invited me to a Mariner’s game, I figured I could deal with it.
I loved it.
I got so into it that it was a little bit weird. I at first got all intellectual about it; about how American baseball was, how it just somehow represented summer and drinking beer and clear, warm nights and peanuts. The hammy sound of the announcers voice was iconic, the sound of the cracking of a bat vibrated through some sort of national DNA chain.
But then as soon as the game started, I was hooked. I could not stop watching it, couldn’t stop rooting and clapping and man, I just got jazzed.
Dad had a long drive back to the burbs and kept suggesting we leave a few innings early. I said that was fine, but kept thinking that it was enormously ironic that as a kid I would bug him to leave early and here I was wanting to stay the whole game.
We ended up staying the whole game and it was a great one.
There was a guy sitting in from of me with his little boy who couldn’t have been much older than four, sitting there with his tiny little baseball mitt. I realized then that it was this sort of tradition, fathers taking their sons to baseball games. It made me a little bit sad that that tradition didn’t really work out for dad when I was a kid – something else to drive a spike between us for a lot of years. But I’m glad we got this one together. Plus I got to drink beer this go around.
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What is it about Seattle and baseball, man!? I used to hear stories from Chuck about going to a game and this or that, even playing on a company team. And when he moved there he was an indoors-only, industrial drummer slash computer programmer!? I mean, of all people... and now you?
Although, nothing beats watching little people run around while you drink beer and yell at them.
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