Gab:
After a harrowing morning at Coronado National Memorial, our goal driving into Tucson was to find a) a place to stay and b) some entertainment to take our minds off being pulled over by a Federal agent. Not necessarily in that order.
We had just reached the southern edge of the city when we saw the scaffolding of stadium lights and signs directed towards large parking lots. Instinctively, we followed the arrows.
It wasn’t until after we paid three dollars for a parking pass that Michael thought to ask, “Are there tickets left for the game?” Sure, sure. The stadium seats 10,000; we’re only expecting about seven. Next questions: “By the way, who’s playing and what time does the game start?”
Yes, folks it’s Spring Training in Arizona, home of the Cactus League. We drove right into a 1 pm game between the Arizona Diamondbacks and the San Francisco Giants, sponsor of all of my dad’s minor league experience. Is there anything like an afternoon baseball game to wash away your troubles?
We parked the car, stripped off some layers of clothes, lathered up on sunscreen, stuffed a bag with camera, binoculars and bottled water and off we went. Hello, baseball season!
On the way to the box office we had plenty of time to phone our fathers and rub it in. What’s the weather in Harrisburg? Cold and rainy. What are you doing? Waiting for the rain to stop. We gloated in the details of our surroundings. Cloudless sky, 90-degree heat, almost full stadium, terrific seats.
Our dads are so great. They humor us. Michael’s dad tried to guess who was pitching for each team. My dad tried to name each of the members of the Cactus League and the location of each of their training camps. Both were amazingly accurate.
We watched the first few innings then decided, like we always do, to wander. We rarely get something to eat at games, but we talk about it a lot. Garlic fries or hot sausage? Too hot. Ice cream or dippin’ dots? Uh, I don’t really want ice cream. Stir fried teriyaki noodles? Hmm, that sounds good…
We always discuss our eating options as we circle the stadium, inspecting the crowd and optimum placement to watch the game. Is there really a bad seat?
No matter how incompetent Bud Selig is, no matter how scandalous the latest steroid accusation, no matter how bad the latest ad campaign (“I Live for This!” – is that supposed to make us feel pathetic? Because it kind of does), baseball is still America’s game.
There is no place I feel more American than in the stands or on the lawn at a baseball game. There is no time I feel closer to my dad than when we are talking baseball. I think Michael feels the same. Baseball connects me with my country and more importantly with my pop. Does it really matter who’s playing?
Who won the game? We don’t know. We left the game around the 8th inning, sun burnt and happy, thinking of which stadiums would be along our route this summer, which teams we might be able to see and what chances we would have to share summer evenings with thousands of other people flocking to see America’s favorite pastime. I do live for this, you know.