The kids and I took in a couple of baseball games this summer, the Yankees and Orioles at Camden Yards in Baltimore. I am glad a handful of sports stadiums in the world have resisted the “Name Your Corporate Sponsor Stadium” mentality. Camden is one, along with Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park in Bahstan, Lambeau Field in Green Bay and Wrigley Field in Chicago (Wrigley is ostensibly for the family, not the gum).
As a spectator, baseball is a game best experienced in real life; the televised version does not engage the senses as does the actual event (says Mr Obvious). Our seats were low down quite close to the field, letting us feel immersed in the game from the point of view of the players. Almost like we were playing, but not.
I gave the “color commentary” to the kids as the game progressed, explaining the nuances of baseball strategy insofar as I understand it. The third base coach flashing signs to the hitter. The manager positioning the outfielders based on the hitter’s tendencies. Hitting the cutoff man. Pitchers keeping a runner close by glancing over and sometimes throwing over to 1st. Pitchers backing up throws from the outfielders. Etc.
I cheer for the Yankees but wear an Orioles cap in tribute to my older brothers, John and Bill, both lifelong Orioles fans. This combination of cheering for the visiting team and wearing the hat of the home team gets me some glances from the Yankee fans seated in front of us. Had I been asked I was ready with the story of how I suffer from Baseball Personality Disorder (BPD – heh) and should not be trifled with. The Yankee fans were funny to listen to as they dissed the umps in New York style.
One of the Oriole players dove to soon for a high flyball and it bonked him on the noggin as he lay prostrate on the field. Insult added to injury. Ouch.
I was worried that the second game we attended would be washed out from a torrential downpour one hour before gametime. I was especially concerned because my tickets were of the digital variety stored on my cell phone. While such advances in the digital economy are commonplace to most normal people, I was convinced that these tickets were not in any way *real* and I would find myself being mocked by Amos, the god of New Things. They scanned those puppies at the gate and I marched on in feeling like Captain Gizmo, or some other obscure superhero.
The drainage system at Camden Yards must be like a giant squeegee because the field was in great shape not more than an hour after the monsoon struck. The Yankees won each game, so all is well in Yankeeland and my annual baseball fix has been satisfied.
Despite some recent bad press and negative comments, I personally find Baltimore to be a pretty cool city. I mean the birthplace of Edgar Allan Poe AND Babe Ruth AND the Star Spangled Banner has to be mondo edgy, amirite?
We spent some time at the American Visionary Art Museum. Very original works of art plus the Most Amazing Gift Shop on the planet that I know about.
On the way back to North Carolina, my daughter and I got trapped in gridlock on I-95 just south of Richmond. And by trapped I mean no one moving, people getting out of their cars and walking around. As the minutes tick by we check in with Google, the knower of all things and discover that there has been an accident up ahead involving an eighteen-wheeler blocking all 4 lanes of southbound I-95, with an expected wait time of 3-5 hours. Yes, hours.
Our fellow Google-aware travelers take this knowledge poorly and begin to slowly turn their cars around to head north on the southbound lanes of I-95. We do the same and work our way back to the previous offramp entitled; Escape From Freeway: Last Chance!
We ended up winding our way through the backwoods of Virginia, attempting to get far enough south to rejoin I-95 post-crash. Thanks once again to our omnipotent friend Google and my daughter’s superior driving skills we succeed and only lose an hour in the process. Driving the wrong way on I-95 was worth it. Let’s do it again!
whoisfenton 