Obstructed View

Every time I look back at any of the baseball games I’ve ever attended, a consistent theme emerged. Most of the people who were there with me are peeps who are special to me. My immediate and extended family. Buddies from home, college, and Boston. Mostly dudes, but not exclusively. Most of the games have been at Fenway, but Yankee and Shea stadiums too. One Philly game. One Baltimore game.

I think THE WIFE and I have gone to only one Sox game together. It was early on in our courting stage. At some point, the jumbotron panned a view in our vicinity in the highest level on the first base side. Just as the camera was about to capture my image, THE WIFE jumped across me with her arms outstretched waving wildly, mouth and eyes wide open, whooping it up. We laughed and high fived. 

The only time anyone in my party ever got a ball was the first time I went to Fenway with my sister. We were in the right field seats in the front row. Wakefield rolled a ball on top of the bullpen roof. Mega snatched it up real quick.

My buddy Scott and I chatted it up with Bernie Williams under the center field bleachers at Fenway during a rain delay. My nephew and I took in a Patriot’s Day Marathon Monday game together. 

Living near Fenway after college definitely helped. In the late 90’s and early 00’s, I averaged maybe four to eight games a year. In recent history, though, I honestly can’t recall the last time I went. 

Usually the tickets came about as pass offs or hand me downs. So and so can’t make it, do you want to take them? Hey, my employer has season’s tickets but no one claimed them tonight - are you in? Standing room only okay for you? Yes, yes, and yes. In.

The seats I’ve experienced run the full gamut. Nose bleeds? Check. Craning my neck around some kind of obstruction to see? Check. Drunken idiots around me heckling players and fans alike? Check. 

So this week, the e-mail inbox showed a new message from an old ultimate frisbee friend. Something about baseball tickets. He and I bonded as Yankee fans in the minority of our crew full of Sox fans. I clicked open, curious. THE WIFE is away this weekend after all.

After a quick scan through the message and registering the key words “free” and “tickets” plural, I furiously punched out a reply trying not to fat finger my response. Not long thereafter, I got the confirmation that we’re good to go. The freeloading T family are at it again!

Although Greta has blatantly declared her allegiance to the Patriots much to my chagrin, the door has been left open on getting her into the Yankee camp. Gus and Tilly have yet to declare any allegiance. Naturally, my “Operation Hearts and Minds” was launched and continues in full blast. We’re headed to the Bronx and the House that Ruth Built tomorrow morning.

My understanding is that our seats are pretty sweet. I won’t believe it until we get there so I’m not going to jinx us. Not sure how many innings will capture the full attention of my three kiddos, but we’ll find out soon enough. If the location of our spot turns out as good as I expect, I’m (only a little bit) hesitant.

Shouldn’t the first MLB experience be in a place very far away from the field where a fight or two might break out and everyone cheers when security drags out some idiot with a ripped and beer-soaked shirt? Shouldn’t the kids be subjected to some very uncomfortable seats and maybe a pipe awkwardly extending above our heads so we can’t quite stand up all the way? Shouldn’t Tilly look at me sheepishly after someone sitting near us drops an F-bomb when the Yanks leave the bases loaded and squander an opportunity to score?

The short answer is - no. Whatever it takes to get the kids on board with my Yankees, I’m in. All I know is if the jumbotron pans over our way, I’ll summon all the old man strength I have left and hoist all three of them into view to make their mama proud.

Let’s play ball!