Camden Yard

Bernie Williams stepped to the plate, the bases were loaded, his teammates waited on the white bags, down by one, seventh inning…Williams had been brought off the bench, one of the most famous centerfielders came to home plate to try and save the day. The scoreboard above the screaming fans in centerfield told everyone that in his illustrious career he batted .300 with the bases loaded, the Oriole fans screamed for the pitcher, the Yankee fans for Bernie.

First pitch, the ball leaves the pitchers hands, if it was possible the crowd got even louder in those one and a half seconds it takes for the ball to travel to the batter. He watches it go by, ball one. The Yankee fans raise their beers, the young man next to us, the son of a local coaching legend, swears and curses the pitcher, her can’t believe they pay him to throw balls. His eyes, stained yellow from all the years of alcohol and cigarettes, perhaps to hide the pain of failing his dad, a hall of fame high school coach; he wasn’t in the majors, he was just a coach, just like his dad, son of the man, everyone knows him, everyone knows that his son is not him, that maybe he just got the job because of who his dad is. The son has to prove himself, but he can’t, maybe they are right, maybe this beer and this game will help him forget about it for a…

…second pitch. Bernie swings, the crowd goes crazy, anticipation of a homerun, anticipation of a ground ball, the ball glances off his bat and flies high in the air, landing safely in the first baseman’s brown leather glove. His father would be happy. He taught him how to catch fly balls.

Camden Yards is beautiful. The moon rested just over the roof above home plate, half showing, half sleeping, they showed it on the big screen, it’s so much more awe-inspiring if you look at it with your own eyes. We sat just above the left field line, box level, on the railing. It was a perfect night, the man two sections over, the oversized Yankees fan, took off his jersey and pumped his arms in the air trying to get the other Yankee fans to shout in unison with him. His belly bounced up in down in rhythm with his arms, girls above us shrieked in disgust, everyone called him nasty and a fucking idiot and that’s why Yankee fans have no class, but they all were jealous, they all wish they were as free as that guy. The coaches son next to us took a sip off his sixth beer, looked at him with his tainted eyes, and told my friend that the guy was an idiot. They had played golf all day, they had farmer’s tans, they were living the life, watching baseball, coaching baseball, wearing sandals, hats with their teams logo on them. He was going to drive home with his friend and talk about baseball, all the way till he got out of the car and closed his door.

The Yankees won. It was exciting how it ended, but that wasn’t the best part for me. For a couple hours everyone had a break from their lives. I want to be able to do that, to allow people to lose themselves in a story, in a picture, in the beauty of a game, in the words of a book, in the words of a character on a screen lost in the confusion of life but finding joy and fulfillment in the smile of a stranger who smiled at him as passed her on the street.

All in all though, baseball is still way too long, with way too many drunk people.

~ by kevinthomas on August 6, 2006.