I know that baseball is America’s game, but I won’t have anything to do with it. And while I could endlessly quote George Carlin on the many reasons why baseball is a total bore, I can only give my own experiences.
First, I must admit that I am a football guy. I have been since I was 10 or so, back when I rooted for Vine Lombardi and the Green Bay Packers. I’ve only had three teams in my life, the Packers, the Rams (when they were still in LA), and the Seattle Seahawks. Even though I am in Florida now, and could even legitimately root for a pirate football team, the Buccaneers, I remain loyal to my Seahawks.
Seattle has another team, I hear. The Mariners I think. I have been to several of their games, which is largely why I don’t like baseball. I have also been to several Tacoma Rainiers games, which I thought to be at least marginally more fun.
I played softball in PE in school. In college, I played intramural softball. While my career as a fielder was less than stellar (see the evidence), I was a very good pitcher and wicked at bat. I never hit anything less than a triple, which probably would have been a home run if I wasn’t such a ploddingly slow runner. I think a paraplegic tortoise could get to home faster than I could.
My first professional game was a Father’s Day gift from my daughter. She took me to a Mariners game in the Kingdome. I had been out the night before and had a pounding headache, which wasn’t helped by the roar of the crowd or the fireworks that were shot off every time the Mariners scored. They did this a lot that day. And every time the fireworks exploded, my head did too. It didn’t help that Becca was terrified of anything loud so whenever an explosion went off, she ran down the tunnel and into the concourse crying. It was a very long day.
Thankfully, we were in the nosebleed section of the dome. The next time I went was when I was given box seats by my employer. We were in great seats, right along the third base line. As I sat there I noticed everyone had mitts. Wow, I thought, these guys are really big time fans. Surprised they didn’t have a bat with them too.
The game was going right along. It was scoreless, which is one of the things I don’t like about baseball. A no-hitter is supposed to be exciting. It’s a pitching duel. In football, fans would be throwing stuff on the field if the score was a pair of goose eggs. Even when the score is 3-0 in football, fans want their money back.
But in baseball, this is supposed to be a thrill a minute. I was a bit confused, because there were several hits in the game. I know this for a fact, because one of them came right down the third base line, making a bee line for my head. I ducked just in time. So that’s why they have the mitts, I thought. Duh! These were supposed to be great seats. And they were, if you wanted to be a target. I might as well had the same seats at a hand grenade throwing competition.
I’m just not sure why a game that has hits is called a no-hitter and why 0-0 is a great game. Plus, you never know when the game actually ends. One time I would be there and it would be nine innings, the next 12. I only knew a game was done because everyone got up at the same to leave.
Originally, I thought a game was over in the 7th inning. Everyone got up at once, so I grabbed my things and sucked down the last of my King Beer. Then everyone started singing. Odd I thought. They don’t do this in football. If a fan started singing at a football game the rest of the fans would promptly beat him to death.
Why is there no time limit like there is in football? Don’t the players want to go home, too?
The Rainiers games were far more fun because you were really close to the players and fans could berate them regularly when they took the field. “Hey, how’s it feel to be a big leaguer – NOT!” they would yell at the guy in right field. He looked unamused. At every game, two lucky fans got to sit in Barcaloungers along the third base line and get served drinks and food. That would have been far more fun than sitting on a bleacher, a shapeless mass of steel that doesn’t even have a back on it. And we wonder why we all have bad backs in America?
I also liked minor league prices. A buck for a dog, three bucks for a beer instead of $10 for a dog and $8 for a King Beer, which was anything but king-sized. And free parking. Of course, the latecomers had to park in the lot behind the outfield fences which provided lots of extra entertainment value. Whenever someone actually managed to hit the ball out of the park, all the fans were treated to the sound of breaking glass as the ball landed on a windshield and got to wonder if it was their car. I made it a point never to be late to a game.
I’m sure baseball has some merits to it. I know it’s not the uniforms. I would hardly feel threatened in a brouhaha on the field with someone wearing glorified pajamas. A 350 pound lineman in pads and helmet, yes. But a guy in stretchy knickers? Not a chance.
This is where baseball does have a distinct advantage. If a big mass of a lineman was chasing me in football, the best I could do is make it to the endzone and he can still deck me. In baseball, I could run home and be safe.
Out on the Treasure Coast, safe at home with no chance of scoring right now,
– Robb