Yard Talk
What do you think about when you go to the yard?
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Now, This. This! Is all I want in life. The Organ — ceremoniously playing the theme of America’s Pastime — might be real or just a recording, and I pray it’s the former. But either way, it’s doing exactly what it needs to do on this lovely day. It’s the ballpark. The sun. The vendors. The fine dirt and perfectly trimmed grass. Obscure dimensions. Superstitions everywhere you look. And the only time I won’t be upset about ketchup and mustard on a dog.
$20 for a beer? Sure, take my money. Willingly, I should add. Hydration will be needed as I bask in the sun for 9 innings, praying this pitch-clock riddled game doesn’t cause a rush.
Row 12, Seat 12 is where you will find me, simultaneously consuming the game on the field and in the green seats that surround me.
A satisfied fan holding up the ball he caught in between innings, which made the price of admission worth it. Pundits annoyed because the person in the middle of the row wants to take a stroll through the concourse, and conversations between the people next to me that I almost want to get involved in, but think against it.
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A pitchers duel, two-baggers, diving catches in the outfield, Angel Martinez to Gabriel Arias for a twin killing to end the inning, not enough pick-off attempts due to the new rules, a 2-RBI pinch hit to take the lead, a slice of greasy pizza, a third beer, and to quote the old man sitting next to me, “God, I love baseball.”
Surrounded by Orange and Black, I begin to take on the feeling of impostor syndrome as I cheer for the Stephen Vogt-led side solely because he once wore the colors of the team that used to occupy the other side of The Bay. A stadium I would much rather be at today, no matter the condition or wasteland it so often resembled.
Nevertheless, I am here on a rare sunny day in San Francisco. Wearing neutral colors and calling on the Baseball Gods for a hard-fought game rather than a desired outcome.
By the time the 7th-inning stretch rolls around, I am fried. Legs burnt to a crisp like the chicken tenders I should have gotten back in the fourth, but the tenders, along with my burnt legs, are forgotten almost instantly as the religious baseball song commences.
“Take me out to the ballgame!” And everyone should know the rest from there.
When did it start? I have no clue. Why do we do it? I could give you a million reasons. It’s glorious. It’s loud. And it’s just what you need. But even in a sea of opposition, combined with my newfound fandom for this other team sporting a big ‘G’ on their caps, my conditioned thoughts couldn’t contain my desire to “root, root, root for the A’s!”
Final score: 2–1, Home Team.
