I decided a while ago to make a series of bucket-list trips to places where I have a connection or history. The first of these was the long and winding road through the Northeastern states of my youth. I was accompanied on that journey by my son, my daughter and the great navigator Google who appears when called upon to dispense witty repartee like, “I’m sorry Dave, your estimated arrival time is 3:37 pm”.
Last summer the bucket list took me and the kids to the great city of Baltimore, home of the Inner Harbor, Johns Hopkins Medical Center, the Ravens, the Orioles and the second best crab cakes in the Milky Way galaxy. The winner of best cakes can be found in the Crab Nebula, a supernova remnant in the constellation of Taurus, because duh.
But this trip was less about crab cakes and all about baseball; in particular my beloved Yankees who were in town to play a four game stint against the mighty Orioles at Camden Yards. Perhaps a better phrase would be “the once mighty Orioles” because the “O’s” were in the throes of a historically bad season, brought on by an aging roster and swollen payroll. My daughter and I thought to disguise our loyalties by donning Oriole caps to blend in with the crowd, only to discover that hordes of Yankee fans had driven down from New York, and these hordes made no attempt to adapt to the local colors of the Maryland state bird.
We were there for the weekend and saw a couple of games, two wins by the Yankees as part of a four game sweep. It is to the Orioles and their fans credit that thirty thousand of the faithful came out to see their team every night. Win or lose, Baltimore loves her Orioles.
The night is clear and warm and Camden Yards is bright and alive under the high intensity stadium lighting. The players warm up with the sound of baseball slapping into leather gloves, the hickory crack of bat on ball, the sensory rituals that are so much a part of this game I love.
Alcohol and hordes can be an incendiary combination, and we watched as an overly festive lady was led away by security. We could hear her arguing unsuccessfully that she is a good person and that everyone likes her, everyone that is except for the Yankees fan and family she had been ‘conversing’ with. Another fellow arrived late and was surprised to find that his seat was insufficiently wide to, um, accommodate him. The usher led him away to, well I’m not sure to where exactly, but hopefully it all worked out in the end. Bada bing bada boom.
Both my older brothers were avid Orioles fans and we spent decades in good-humored ribbing as our team’s fortunes rose and fell, like the tide. I lost them both last year within six weeks of one another and truth be told this is why I wanted to come to these games, to be an Orioles fan for a time under a Maryland sky filled with stars. They would have wanted to be part of the game and times we shared, to still be part of all this.
And I believe they are.
whoisfenton 