THREE BATTING HELMET MONTE

And other vagaries at the ballpark

(to Carol, who helped inspire it; and to Messrs. Sheppard and Steinbrenner, lions among the lambs in the annals of sport)

Very recently, I met my very dear friend Carol at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg, FL. I was invited to sit with her and her boyfriend and watch the Rays take on the Cleveland Indians—an incalculably sweet gesture, particularly in view of the fact that the seats I paid for were further from the action and may have cost less. The game itself was fairly routine; the hometown Rays shut out the Tribe. The atmosphere gave me room to contemplate things I hadn’t thought of before—specifically, what takes place between innings, and between the seats among us spectators.

For example, the beer vendors. You don’t really notice the beer vendors while you’re watching the game, particularly if you’re watching at home. When you’re at home, the vendors just sort of melt into the overall crowd noise. But when you’re in the ballpark, and you have a chance to notice them, you may find yourself marveling at the various and sundry ways in which the vendors yell and hawk their wares. The best of them, it seems, have voices that would sound right at home at the circus—at Tropicana Field, it’s fitting that they’re right under the big top. They sell beer in aluminum bottles, ice cream that’s about a minute from melting, and boiled peanuts. I’ve never had a boiled peanut, but I’ve heard tell that they taste of old leather. And the prices! Donald Trump himself would probably fire the vendor for charging him nine dollars for Eskimo Pie that may melt on his cufflinks.

Another thing I’ve noticed: the security guards that line the foul lines during pitching changes, between innings and at other times. Again, you don’t notice them especially when you’re watching on television. The crew-cut, tough-looking security guys stand there on the foul lines, expecting a riot that never takes place. It’s not as obvious as, for example, the Philadelphia Police Department with canines and on horseback, and the steeds taking a dump on the warning track. This actually happened, supposedly while Tug McGraw was trying to strike out Willie Wilson and win the 1980 World Series. But it’s quite interesting to observe the guys out there, looking buff and tough, daring a streaker to come on the field so that all the fans can see just how tough life can be if you get on their field.

There are fun things, too. At the Trop, during every game, three guys dressed as water, Pepsi and Sierra Mist (no doubt from the source) bottles hold little forty-yard dashes, no doubt fixed. There are supposedly variations all over the country—bratwursts and sausages in Milwaukee, pierogis in Pittsburgh, cheesesteaks in Philadelphia, and so on. At least I think they’re cute –we could take a straw poll of players and see how the like it, because I seem to remember one instance in Milwaukee some years ago where a Pittsburgh Pirate actually attacked one of the sausages.

Cuter still, at least at Tropicana Field, are hat shuffles. Basically, it’s no different from three-card monte, and usually some sweet-looking child is trying to guess where the ball is, and if he’s right, he wins ice cream. And you know what? The child gets an awful lot of help. Not so long ago, the Yankees were visiting the Rays on a Sunday, and the hat shuffle came about. When asked if the ball were under hat one, two or three, it is reported that the moppet replied, “Four!” Everyone laughed, even the broadcasters.

The jumbotrons are somewhat of a magnet, too. I remember one of the first jumbotrons, at old Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia, which was called Phanavision. In comparison to some of the monstrocities of today, it was small. But nowadays, it seems to me that some are quite content to watch the jumbotron, even the umpires. The first two times I was ever at Tropicana Field, one of the umpires, the crew chief in fact, was an older man named Joe Brinkman. I noticed that between innings, Brinkman would not talk with other umpires or players; he was content to spend that time watching the big screen, rapt at the little commercials and other temporary diversions. Why do I think of this, you ask? Because the other night, another umpire was doing exactly the same thing. God alone knows why I think of these things.

I will tell you the one thing I don’t like about baseball, that I don’t really notice when I go to the park, but I see all the time on the tube. It’s the spitting. The endless, mindless, meaningless spitting. You don’t notice it on grass, and maybe you don’t much mind. But on artificial turf, it’s even more appalling than the act already is. I don’t know what the spitting says—I don’t really want to know.

Besides that, name me the one sport that provides good, clean, wholesome fun for the whole family besides baseball. God help me, I do love it so. It’s been so good to me since I was a little boy sitting with my grandfather, seeing Mike Schmidt stare down Nolan Ryan at Veterans Stadium. I wish I could get to the park more often. And I wish you could notice the things I do when I get there…