They were the best seats I’d ever had at a baseball game. Eight rows back, between home plate and third base.
Seats so close when the players scratched I felt it. Ahhh, that’s the spot.
Seats so close one could almost feel the showers of spit.
The kind of seats where you can park your lazy ass and eager servants stand at the ready to take your order and fetch whatever food or drink your highness desires.
Seats like what the swells sit in, from cradle to coffin to seated at God’s right hand.
Oh, baby, these were prime seats. But here’s the thing about any seat: it’s a confined hunk of real estate. You have no control over who occupies the surrounding seats. And that’s where this story gets interesting.
Directly in front of me was a twenty-something dude with more artwork on his arms than the Sistine Chapel. He was sporting loose jeans and a thick chain from a belt loop to his wallet, as if it were a Doberman that needed to be choked back. He had short red hair and a classic rock T. He was enjoying the game with his woman, who appeared to be eight months pregnant hunkering down on delivery at any moment. She was not drinking alcohol so the man was drinking for three: he, she and baby2B.
The Atlanta Braves were getting beat up by the lowly Seattle Mariners. Gregor Blanco was playing outfield and a fly ball was smacked his way. Gregor ran full tilt for a moment, then downshifted to a trot and fielded the ball neatly on a short hop, throwing it to the cut off man as a runner scored from second. The dude in front of me stood and angrily began shouting at Blanco.
“Come on, man, what the hell was that?! Hustle, you lazy overpaid son of a bitch! HUSTLE!”
His woman stood by her angry man as he berated the fielder returning to his position. Suddenly my prime seat was worthless–– I had a view of the angry man and his woman’s asses and little else. The man had his hands balled into tight fists as if he might just go down onto the field and administer a healthy beating to Blanco. The tats on his forearms seem to gain color intensity as he ranted. And rant on he did.
“Jesus, you’re making millions–– hustle, man–– run! You should have had that! What the hell are you doing?! Shit, I could have caught that. Come on, man! You suck, Blanco!”
I got the feeling the madman fan actually thought Blanco could hear him in the outfield and was shamed enough to come apologize to him. Nope.
Meanwhile, the game continued with a man on base on a field I couldn’t see for the blue jeans ahead, butts at eye level. The guy was obviously tanked and angry but I finally had to ask him to sit down. He did so begrudgingly. The Mariners scored some more and eventually he and his woman vanished into the night, like a beer burp that just escapes unexpectedly.
Those minutes where he stood before me and raged were testament to why I don’t follow sports as closely as I used to. Long ago I allowed myself to believe I could control the outcome of events I had no control over. I’d deliver newspapers listening to the Cleveland Indians of the early 70’s attempting to play baseball. I’d hope and wish they would not find new ways to blow games and disappoint me and their fans. Alas, no dice. Those Indians were God-awful and could manage to blow any lead, crush any spirit.
Still, I believed I could sway some power over their lack of athletic ability. I only set myself up for disappointment and the rage would manifest itself with my right arm hurling the transistor radio down the street, breaking it into pieces.
It was costly to follow the Indians. I began to wean myself off sports. I had to. Seeing the tatted man reaffirmed I’d made the right decision.
(But I still sneak peaks at the box scores of the Indians.)