Baseball, beer, and bonding

Last month ended with baseball week - the Sox were in town for a three-game stand. They weren't up in Baltimore, where getting to and from the game van take as long as the game itself, they were inside DC. Needless to say, I was excited. I've made the trek up to Baltimore once a year since moving down here, which is actually more than I saw the Sox my last couple of years in Boston, when I had to choose between tickets or beer money. And they way things were going at work I deemed beer money a necessity. But I digress. Camden Yards is a great ballpark, but getting there is impossible if you don't have a car. Correction. Getting home is impossible. You can always take the MARC commuter train up there, but because evening commuters are headed away from DC, you can't catch a train home. So I convince my University of Maryland friends that they want to go to a game with me, which involves picking me up at the Metro and giving me a ride back at the end of the night. Less than optimal. You'd think that Baltimore, who lobbied so vehemently against the return of a Washington baseball team because it would cut into their fanbase, would make it easier for folks who live in the city to get to their park.

Anyway, the Red Sox. We know that I love them. One couldn't just buy tickets, however. The Washington Nationals knew that these games were a cash cow, and they made it difficult. At first, you could only get Sox tickets as part of a thirteen game package. That's right, you had to identify ten other times you'd like to see an almost certain conclusion. When they judged that they'd sold as many packages as they were likely to, they instituted a raffle for the chance to buy tickets to just the Sox games. I immediately got everyone I knew (who wasn't likely to want the tickets for themselves) to enter the raffle. It worked. Lady won a raffle slot, and we had a coffee date one morning when we bought tickets to all three games. And so it was that Daddo and I spent three glorious nights in June watching the Red Sox play ball here in DC. Each night we were joined by two other friends - Bill and Anna, a couple of my work buddies, and then Momola and my dad's dad, Pa to me, who grew up in Springfield, Mass. and has been a Sox fan all his life. (Though he felt honor bound to root for the home team, which I couldn't quite fathom. That was the night the Nats won, however, so maybe he knew something we didn't.)

Anyway, the games were great fun and the crowd made for lots of good stories, but the reason I was thinking about baseball here was because last week Daddo and I went to see the Cubs in town with the company tickets. You know, the good seats. And I was reminded of the week of games with him. We'd both head to the stadium, trying to call each other as we got there, missing calls over the din of the vendors, people, and loudspeakers. Instead we'd meet up at the seats, beer in hand - the man taught me my priorities, after all - and sit down to watch the crowd. If I didn't agree to trek for food before the game started I'd hear about it later when the lines were longer. We'd chat a bit, but as the heat kicked in and the games started we settled into the odd baseball or heat-related comment and comfortable silences (although, using the word silence when music was blaring and announcers were at top volume seems wrong). At some point around the seventh inning stretch, Daddo would turn and announce he was headed home at the end of the inning, facing a train ride to his car and the drive home from there. We were both hot and overwhelmed by noise by this point, so a quick 'good night' and we'd part company. We don't talk much during those evenings, but I love going to the games with Daddo. We sit next to each other and share the same experience, right down to the sweaty grossness that is DC summertime, and despite the sweat, the spilled beer or sausage-burned mouth, that obnoxious kid who's bound to sit behind you every so often, and the occassional foul bruise, it's pretty great.

-- Posted via iPhone.