That Old Ball Game by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Charlotte had just opened a brand-new downtown minor league baseball stadium a couple of weeks prior to the rain-now-gone evening that found Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) staring at a yellower than a canary left-field foul pole. We had just consumed some standard ball-park fare in the standing-room-only area, and were now seated as the Durham Bulls came up to bat in the top of the third. The game was still scoreless.

Monique was now taking in the surroundings. She was noticing the tall buildings behind right and center fields. She then commenced the conversation at BB&T Ballpark.

“The city skyline certainly is an impressive backdrop, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] They really thought this out.”

“Yeah, the design is excellent. I’m glad that they placed home plate in the southwest corner of the stadium. That way the late afternoon sun is blocked, unless you sit in the outfield bleachers.” 

“Hey, let me take your picture!”

“Only if I can take yours.”

“Sure!” 

We snapped some obligatory photos as the Bulls started putting some men on base. Need a double-play ball.

Monique was disappointed when she couldn’t make a wireless connection to facebook to upload the new pics.

“Does this place have free wireless, Agent 33?”

“Hmmm … I’m not sure, 32.”

The next thing you know, we hear that unmistakable sound: the crack of a well-swung wooden bat solidly connecting with a cowhide-covered, three-inch-wide, red-seamed, white ball. And boy was that white ball sailing into the darkening evening sky. Heck, it was headed right for us!

“Heads-up, Monique!”

“What? Where is it?”

Monique had no idea where the baseball was, or where it was going. And, before I could answer her questions, the ball moved back into fair territory, soared over the left-field- corner wall, and bounced off the picnic area canopy. It then hopped and bounded into West 4th Street. What a shot!

“Wow! That was some home run there, Monique. An epik [sic] with a k blast.”

Monique followed the ball as it rolled down the sidewalk. “Yeah, it really was, Parkaar.”

“Too bad the wrong team hit it.”

“Can you hit it that far, 33?”

“In my dreams. In my fading youthful dreams.”

We both laughed as the Durham Bulls were finally retired. They now led 3-0.

“The Knights have got themselves into a bit of a hole, Monique.”

“But, there’s 72.22% of the game left to go, Parkaar.”

“Good, quick math, 32.” How did she calculate that so fast? She must have used her calculator on her cell phone.

The teams tacked on a run each in the fourth, and then the game fell into a fifth-inning lull.

“You know, Monique, I think that this is the first professional baseball game that I’ve attended since seeing the San Francisco Giants play their archrivals, the Los Angeles Dodgers, in that old, soon-to-be-razed, windy-as-hell Candlestick Park.”

“And when was that, Parkaar?”

“It was Wednesday afternoon, July 29, 1992 to be exact.”

“No way! You’re making that up.” How would he remember that exact date? Did he find gold out there that day?

“No, I’m for real, 32; that was the date. I looked it up on one of those baseball almanac websites the other day. I remembered that the Grobster – remember him from our wedding? – came out to visit me in late July of ‘92. I can still remember the stadium conditions: sunny, windy, and as cool as a fog sandwich.”

“As cool as a fog sandwich? You’ve got that audio recorder going again. Yes, I can tell.” I guess fog sandwich was a little too surreal for normal conversation.

“Oh? Maybe so.”

“Oh, I know so. But, please continue.”

“Well, the game-time temperature was 65° F, but it felt like 45. Rob was so amazed that an American city in the lower 48 could be so cool in late July. You know how hot Charlotte is in late July, Monique.”

“Oh, yes, darling. I’ve experienced two of them already. Even hotter than Manila!”

“Ok, I remember that the ‘stick [local slang for Candlestick Park] was only half-full. Back then the Giants were practically giving the tickets away. The team almost got relocated to Tampa Bay that year. I think both of us got in for only $10. Crazy cheap. Not like the ever-sold-out AT&T Park of today.”

Monique just nodded. Then she began to eat the rest of her tucked-away pretzel.

Neither the Bulls, nor the Knights, scored in the fifth. The game lumbered into the sixth with Durham still up by three.

Darkness had completely taken over now. Rectangles of light from the office, apartment and condo towers appeared sporadically in columns and in rows, but I’m not sure if a connect-four was ever scored.

My mind meandered back to Candlestick Park. I wonder how many people who attended that game in ’92 are still alive. Are any of them here tonight? Maybe a transferred BofA employee? Were any famous people at that particular game? A now-famous Silicon Valley techie, perhaps? Anyone who later committed a horrific crime. A garotter? [sic] A lottery winner?

Monique noticed that I had become lost in my thoughts. She shifted in her seat and placed her cute, tiny, perfectly bronzed, right hand on my left arm. “What are you thinking, my dearest Parkaar?”

“Oh, just wondering who might have been at that particular NL West baseball game back in 1992.” Of all the things to think about.

“Were you even at that game? Are you sure that you were really there?”

“Yes, I’m sure. My mind has not completely crumbled yet. Rob and I were really there. You can ask him the next time you see him.”

“Ok, I believe you, 33. But, I don’t get the cosmic significance of it.”

“Me, either, Monique. But maybe the butterfly takes effect.”

“Gosh, you can be so loco, [Filipino slang for crazy] my crafty kano. [Filipino slang for American] You lead us out into the middle of a God-forsaken desert of thought to find some buried golden notion, and then you stop and ask who has the map.” Wow! I like her description.

“Excellent, 32. Yeah, something like that, asawa. [wife in Tagalog and Cebuano] Do keep going. Keep pumping our story along! Send it down the line. Heck, send it over the line. But, let’s keep it in fair territory.” He’s playing for the tiny microphone in his shirt pocket once again.

“Why is everyone standing up, hon? And what is that song that everyone is singing?”

“It’s the seventh-inning stretch, my love. It’s a ritual at every baseball game in the middle of the seventh inning. The song is Take Me Out to the Ball Game. It’s a real oldie that hatched on Tin Pan Alley in New York City. They’ve been singing it for eons. Ok, for over a century. It was penned in 1908. It’s pure Americana.”

“It’s kind of corny, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so now, 32.”

“Maybe it has always been, 33.”

“Maybe so. I guess they needed to have something to do. I think by the middle of the seventh inning, everyone needed to get their rumplers [sic] out of the hard seats.”

“Rumpler? I don’t think that’s an English word, Parkaar.”

“Well, it is now.” I laughed.

“Hey, wait, I think that’s my word. I used it before somewhere. Don’t be using my words, 33. Don’t swipe my lines.” Monique chuckled.

“No, never, know never, and with a psilent [sic] k, w and p, oh, pso klever [sic] …”

“Ok, that’s enough, 33. Cut it. Pause it. Stop it.”

“Icy, I see.”

“You are intentionally using previous lines again. You really need to tone down your echo, Agent 32.” When is the final echo?

The Knights drew as close as a single run, thanks to a two-run shot to left-center. The score was now 4-3 in favor of Durham.

“We’re back in the game, Monique.”

“Are you running from myths or creating them?”

I did a double-take. Make that a triple. “Wow! That’s a great turn of phrase, Monique. I’ll be using that one for sure when I write up this wonderful night. Oh, I just remembered that it was the sixth inning when the Dodgers pounded out five runs on that late July day by the bay in ‘92. They would go on to win the game 6-1. San Francisco had won the prior two games of the three-game series. Both teams went absolutely nowhere that year; they both took turns scrubbing the cellar floor. I’m sure that Agents 35, 49, 307, and 344 would’ve liked that result.”

“Probably so. Those agents bleed Dodger blue, 33.”

“Yeah, no doubt.”

“So, it all comes back in bits and fragments, Parkaar?”

“Uh, more like sharp shards – sharp shards of broken glass.”

“Yikes!” Monique exclaimed.

“Relax, 32, these thoughts can’t cut you. Well, at least not from this angle.”

“Hey 33, let me take a quick, little, five-second video of you announcing the game.”

“What? I don’t know, Monique. I’ve got that nasty spider bite on my right cheek and I just feel old.”

“You’re not old!”

“I’ll be 50, as in five-oh in July.”

“So, what?”

“So, what? When I was 16, I didn’t even think that I would live to be 50. It seemed so ancient.”

“But, it’s not. Here you are, and still very active; still riding the bike to work.”

“Well, it aint 30. Let me tell ya. And all that ‘life begins at 50’ stuff is just a load of caca.” [Spanish for crap]

“You mean cacao?”

“Uh, I wish.”

I finally consented to Monique’s video request. She filmed me doing a five-second mock-announcer bit. (The video is posted on the psecret psociety facebook page; scroll back to April 2014.)

A sudden northwest breeze brought a chill with it. I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Monique was smart enough to bring a leather jacket.

“Monique, I feel a little chilly and I think my butt has had it with this seat.”

“You want to go after the Knights are retired in the seventh?”

“Sure, whatever; that’s fine by me.” I gots to gets out of here.

The Knights failed to score in the bottom half of the inning. We got up and gathered our things and left via the Graham Street exit. I wonder if the Knights will make a comeback.

We walked west on 4th Street towards our gravel parking lot.

“Did you enjoy the game, Agent 32?”

“I did. Very much. That’s a great stadium. Thanks for everything.”

“Sorry to cut it short. I mis-dressed. I thought that I could macho it out in short sleeves like I did at Candlestick. I guess I’ve lost my cool-stadium blood, my dear.”

“Well, we’re not singing Arrivaderci, Roma.” What?!

“Ah, now who is caught in Ernie’s enigmatic echo chamber?”

We both shared a chuckle as we passed by the Greyhound bus station and skipped under the railroad overpass.

“This is where the Gateway multimodal station will be built, Monique. Amtrak, Greyhound, the CATS Red Line train and the Gold Line streetcar will all converge here.”

“Wow! That will be so convenient!”

“No doubt. Someday soon we can take the Gold Line to Hornets games.”

We got in our van and drove back to the eastside of town. I would find out later (online) that the Knights would lose the game (4-8).

I continued to think about the LAD-SFG game at Candlestick Park on July 29, 1992. How many MLB games have been played? Hundreds of thousands? Though, probably less than a million.

Yes, a seemingly insignificant major league baseball game on a July afternoon in 1992 had a hold on my mind. I remembered that some spectators were even snoozing in the stadium. A cheap place to take a safe catnap, I guess.

There were also a few reading short stories – just like the one that you are reading now – on folded pamphlets. Some were elevated by gusts.