Like a boy trying to sleep on Christmas Eve, the walk from the parking lot of the stadium to the front gates was always the epitome of excitement. You could smell the tailgater’s grills charring steaks and brats. The air was hot, but kids running around throwing baseballs and Frisbees didn’t care how sweaty they got. And above it all, on the horizon, a monolith of architecture grew. A shrine to the past time. The anticipation was building.
“You think we’ll win the pennant this year, Dad?”
“I hope so son. We’re right at .500 and we have a history of playing well the second half of the season.”
I wasn’t listening to his reply. In all honesty, I didn’t care, as deep down, my heart was like that of a Chicago Cubs fan. It didn’t matter the score of the game I was watching, as long as I was there.
As we traversed the parking lot the stadium grew bigger and bigger until you couldn’t appreciate its size anymore. We went up to will call to pick up our tickets and Dad let me hold them. The crisp, thick paper was not quite card board but something strong. I could feel the sharp edges of the ticket and strange urge to start folding corners overtook my hands. I think it was the excitement.
The massive gates read “First Base” twenty feet in the air, and like the gate keeper at OZ a smiling man with some grocery store type scanner pointed it at my already wrinkled ticket. He had this look on his face like he knew how excited I was. I wondered for a moment if there was any other mundane profession in the world as fulfilling as the ticket man at a ball park gate. The apex of anticipation culminates right in front of him, and he has the pleasure of watching the faces of thousands of eager fans feel this very moment.
The world changed on the other side of that gate. We were no longer in the real world. Even the air changed, as a cool breeze blew by. We were now in the shade. The ground was a pristine finished concrete. The smell of beer and hot dogs was the first sensation that hits you. But I didn’t have time for these thoughts. My eyes raced around in front of me looking for the sunlight. 'Where is it? I have to see the field.' It doesn’t matter how hungry or thirsty anyone is, the second they walk into a ball park they have to go look at the field.
The upper deck lowering down in front of me; a 4 foot sliver of bright brown and green sunlight was bursting below it. My heart jumped as the light hit my eyes, and I walked straight ahead. Dad was empathetic. Nothing needed to be said, we both knew the unspoken rule. You have to see the field.
As we approached the stairs, the light began to grow like curtains rising. Behold. The most beautiful garden; the perfect lawn; the dirt being watered by the conga line of water hose men; the players hurling passes to each other from one side of the outfield to the other. And above them rose the inside of the stadium. Beautiful arrays of brightly colored plastic seats, separated by a labyrinth of stairs, spread out in panoramic fashion, second only to the size of the West Texas sky.
My heart calmed and a sublime melancholy overcame me, a relaxation after the build up of excitement. After this point all else would be the same delightful tribute to American tradition we relish mid morning on Christmas day. We could all relax now and follow the pattern of a past time that has been passed down through the generations.
No comments:
Post a Comment