my homage to ring lardner

SEASON TICKETS
by Joan Arenstein
(1987)

Well, Mabel, here we are again, right smack dab into baseball. You know, I guess I’ve been looking forward to it, I’ll have to say that. It’s a sure sign of spring to be sitting at the ball park, with the smell of fresh cut grass, and we couldn’t have had a better night for opening the season. High in the seventies and just a little gust blowing the trash into right field. I just don’t know how our boys can concentrate with all those pieces of paper blowing around their faces and feet. You’d think they’d get confused and try to catch somebody’s grocery list instead of the ball. Our boys are something else. In between innings those darling children that keep the field looking spiffy just trotted out there and picked up that trash. And no more than an inning later, the trash was back along the right field wall. Just like dirty dishes, Mabel.
I just knew we’d have to sit forever on the freeway in all that traffic. What with the opening being a sellout and all, and with the kind of season we had last year, and all that traffic. Well, the newspaper men tried to route all us baseball fans in different directions to avoid all the construction. There were little maps in the paper showing you how to get to the park by taking 360 around to the North, or Collins Road by that new restaurant, Friday’s I think it is. Or coming in from the North on 60 and circling to the west and back south. You’d think they’d fix it so the construction was finished when the season started, but I guess the city just didn’t get its plans regulated right. Nothing new, huh?
Well, my Freddie decided he’d just ignore all those smart newspaper men, you know how he is. And I told him, Freddie, we’ve just got to get there for the National Anthem. I mean, after all, it is opening day. But, no, Freddie has to decide for himself the best way to get to the park. So we took our regular route, the one the newspaper men told us to avoid, right through all that construction on 157, and would you believe it, no one else was smart enough to ignore that good advice, and we just rolled into the ball park in plenty of time. That Freddie of mine, he is something else. And he just said, now we’re here early. I know he was thinking about his first beer of the season.
Now parking was something else. You know, Mabel, last year we’d wait forever after the games, sitting in our seats til the lights went out and the official asked us to leave, and then in the car for a while, listening to the end of the radio wrap up, or a little music, just so the traffic could die down, Freddie would say. Well, this year we decided to get the book of those little pink coupons that let you park in the special lot. Parking there would make it easier to get back onto the freeway after the game, Freddie said. But I tell you, they must have sold more coupons than they had parking spaces, because we had to drive round in circles in that special lot to find a place to park. Round and round and round. Finally, they let us park the Olds against the curb. You could see the steam pouring out of Freddie’s ears, he was so mad. And I guess I couldn’t blame him. I mean, after all, you splurge a little to get special privileges, and you still have to drive around forever.
Well, Mabel, our seats were still there waiting for us, with the little name tags we got the first year the team moved to Texas. Freddie and Annie. And you know, Freddie just had to sit in the aisle seat, just to stretch his legs. Even though it has my name on it. I really don’t mind, though. And sure enough, the place was sold out. But it was a right friendly crowd, even when the first half of the first inning went on forever. I mean, eight runs against our boys in the first inning. Can you believe that, Mabel? Some games you never even see eight runs. But when that third out finally arrived, on a called strike, the crowd was on its feet, cheering and yelling.
You know, Mabel, this was kind of a different crowd for a sell out. It wasn’t like the crowds last year that were sold out when they had one of those musical groups in. Last year you’d see lots of cowboy boots and dungarees, even in the dead of summer. And the people weren’t really into baseball. This crowd was more like a bunch of beginners, but beginners who were really interested in what was going on. And beginners who weren’t especially disappointed in the results. At the end of the eighth inning, lots of them left, most of them, in fact. And the ones that stayed were a familiar bunch in the way they acted. They were together. They cared about the results, but not for themselves. For the players. I don’t know how to explain it, Mabel. I can just tell the difference. You know me and baseball.
I was hoping for something special this year for the National Anthem. Last year Charlie McCoy played his harmonica. So sweet. Well, this year they had some long haired boy singing. It was hard keeping up with his style. He added a lot of extra notes, and I was either behind him or ahead of him the whole time. They have that big screen television in the park now, Mabel, and there was a close up shot of that singer right on the screen. Only his mouth was moving a little different on the screen than it was if you looked at him directly. If it had been me singing in front of that crowd with my picture on that big screen moving different from my voice, I would have gotten real confused. I guess he did okay. He must have been somebody famous. To be there opening day.
Well, Mabel, it just wouldn’t have been a real opening day at the baseball park if I hadn’t eaten a hot dog. I don’t eat a lot of beef now, what with my high blood pressure, but being at the baseball park and not eating a hot dog just somehow wouldn’t be right. This year they have vendors selling everything in the aisles, so you don’t hardly ever have to leave your seat, except to go freshen up. They’re even vending pretzels, seat to seat. But Freddie warned me the food doesn’t stay as hot when the vendors carry it around all over the park, just like his beers aren’t as cold as when he goes to the concession stand. And I had to agree he was probably right. So I picked a time I figured not very much would be happening on the field. We have two concession stands to pick from near our seats, and I picked the one to the right, because you can watch the game there while you’re standing in line. I figured the lines would be fairly long, considering it was a sell out, but, can you believe it, I walked right up to the vendor and got my hot dog. No waiting.
I had only one problem with the food at the ball park this year, Mabel. I know it’s not your gourmet restaurant, and sometimes the pretzels are kind of dry, and they’re covered with so much salt you could spend fifteen minutes knocking it all off. But somehow a hot dog’s just not a hot dog without onions. And they didn’t have any onions at the ball park that day. Can you believe that, Mabel? No onions. Well, I had to put something on my hot dog besides mustard, and you know how I can’t stand relish. So I asked for sauerkraut. I paid for it later, believe you me.
Well, sis, it’s getting kind of late, so I guess I’d better end this note for now. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on in the big city. It’s springtime, it’s baseball, and the birds are just filling up my back yard. I could just sigh.
Oh, by the way, the boys lost the game. But it’s early in the season, like Freddie always says. Early, late, we could use a few good pitchers, if you ask me. That’s always been our problem. Oh, but here I go on and on when I said I was going to end this letter. Come visit us soon. Maybe we’ll take you to a game.