Baseball Behind the Orange Curtain: Father’s Day was a real treat after winning tickets to the Angels-Mets contest on Angel’s Money Clip Day (presented by Xerox). Spud and I left the house and got to the park early, which is strange for my family. Will wonders never cease? Getting out of the car, Spud was pretty impressed with the size of the park. To avoid returning my son (and
myself) to his mother looking like two big red hamhocks, we slapped on some suntan lotion, SPF 45, I believe. Neither of us tanned that day, I think we could have been sleeping on tanning beds for six hours and emerged looking like that guy from France who lived in a cave for six months. This stuff was so good, I think it took away some of my tan.
In my zeal to make sure we weren’t unprepared for anything, I packed about 10 pounds of gear into his tiny backpack. The zipper kind of broke. Then it comes to me that I really don’t want to be saddled with the guilt of making him carry the 10 pound sack into the park carrying his water bottle while I tote my camera. He’s not my pack animal—that will come when he turns 13. So, slinging his backpack over my shoulder, we headed towards Edison Field. The walk was long and warm, necessitating a couple of stops to drink from his water bottle.
As luck would have it, on Father’s Day, Little League District 55 was in attendance…all of them. Gangs of mini-baseball players running to the gate surrounded us as we trekked from the car. Long files of uniformed 7-12 year olds reached from the gate to the busses that brought them in. As Spud checked out the unis, I wondered if he’d be wearing one of them in a few years. Then again,
now I’m flashing back circa 3rd grade to see classmate, Terry, needing three stitches in his upper lip because he couldn’t handle a bad hop to the right side by a recess-illegal hardball. In Terry’s defense, the groundskeeper was off that day, so the field at Willow Canyon Elementary was a little uneven. Soccer is probably a better choice. The chess club is even better. (Random sidebar: Have you guys SEEN the Nike freestyle soccer/football commercials? Money. Sick futball handling skills…look ma, NO HANDS. Maybe they need one of those commercials for chess…but I digress)
A quick bag search by security then we were able to hand the ticket taker our ducats and walk in. I received my Angel’s Money Clip presented by Xerox. We walk up the ramps and stairs, grab a couple of dogs ($8), head to our seats and sit down to eat. As we consume our dogs, I’m giving Spud the .50 cent tour of what the field is about (“that is first base…that is the pitcher’s mound”). It dawns on me that it’s pretty difficult to teach a kid the concepts of baseball. Things like what is a team, what scoring means and what an inning is are not easy concepts to grasp if you have no analogues to teach from. I give up and just let him wonder. It’s pretty hot out in the sun.
However, I was able to explain the intricacies of the Jumbotron (it’s a big TV); as the players file into the dugouts, the big TV features a video of All That Makes Baseball Great. It begins with James Earl Jones monologue from the Field of Dreams. Darth Vader intones:
The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. Its been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But, baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and could be again.
—James Earl Jones,
Field of Dreams
In the video, there are clips from almost every famous play or event in baseball: May’s Miracle catch, “I’m the luckiest man alive”, The Shot Heard ‘Round the World (grrr), Hammerin’ Hanks 715th, Kirk Gibson’s blast to right center game one, et cetera. Some of the fathers get emotional.
The pre-game video segues into the national anthem and some of the fathers get emotional again. Being at a baseball game with your kid singing the national anthem is what makes America great. And as the rocket’s red glare rises, the Disney Company reminds us of the cost of this freedom is not only $17 for the ticket, but lives given by men and women in battle; a reminder that comes by way of fireworks simulating the rocket’s red glare. Red glare is somewhat difficult to simulate during the day, but I give it an E for effort.
Much to my consternation, my two and half year old thinks that the ultimate sacrifice is being demanded of him, pulls a Saddam Hussein impersonation and goes into hiding. If you think that there isn’t a lot of legroom in a stadium seat, you’ve never had to stand there two deep with a frightened toddler clinging to your legs tighter than Warren Sapp on a QB (or, since this is baseball, tighter than Mike Lieberthal on Adam Dunn). With the bombs bursting mid-air concluded, and as the Halos take the field, the PA guy gives the defensive lineups. At this point ANOTHER round of fireworks goes off after EACH position is announced. Great. Nine more bombs. As if Spud wasn’t traumatized enough being my kid. Then I realize that this is an AL park, which means that they play with the DL, which means that there are 10 BOMBS, not nine. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t grow up with the “I-hate-baseball-forever-because-of-that-Father’s-Day-Incident-of-2003” complex.
I reach an epiphany: the DH is a bad rule.
Three innings and we see Washburn K a couple of Mets and a rookie by name of Reyes hit a grand slam. Spud pretty much is still reeling from all the munitions detonating so I figure it’s time for an ice cream sandwich to cheer him up. $4 for a morale booster. The sun is beating down on us as we finish the ice cream so we head out to the concourse to get a lemonade. $4.50 for a “large”. But, a small price to pay when the alternative is heat exhaustion—which is bad if you want good memories of your first ballgame. I fork over the dough and we spend the next three innings walking around the entire stadium, stopping to call gramps and watch some midway games behind center field.
I think the Halos are down 7-0 by the time we return to our seats.
We sit back down and Spud uses the binoculars to check out the players. Then I realize that he’s also using the binoculars to check out people around him. Great, I’m raising a voyeur. Not only that, a pretty bad voyeur because he’s using the wrong end of the binoculars.
Not much is happening in the baseball game as the Halos are getting one hit by Steve Trachsel. My thoughts as to how this can happen dissolves into planning the exit: a jet to the car after the eighth inning…after all, this is Los Angeles/Orange County and I do need to make sure Spud understands the protocol concerning leaving early. Down the ramp and after a few “Goodbye, Angels”, we hike back to the car.
The rest of the day is spent driving down the 5 to San Juan Capistrano and back up the 5 to Disneyland so that Spud can get a good nap. At Disneyland, we meet up with Sprout and mom for dinner at The Storyteller Café (all you can eat buffet) and then an evening in the park.
