Of all the professional sports about which I do not care, baseball is the one about which I care the least. On the other hand, I’ve gone to more baseball games than I have for any other professional sport.
On my last one, I went to see the Cubs play the Padres in Wrigley Field with my Dad. My Dad, to my surprise, actually likes baseball (also to my surprise, he played in high school). We had excellent seats – ten rows back from third base.
Despite my misgivings, I had an excellent time: can’t really tell you what happened on the field with any detail, but the ambiance was amazing. Somehow, in a relatively small and old park like Wrigley Field, the million-dollar business of baseball feels like an picnic held by your local library’s ladies auxiliary.
|Inside of Wrigley.|
We were greeted at our seats by Pat, a retired teacher who showed us to our seats and carried on an entertaining feud with the beer and peanut vendors. The field was groomed by what looked to be volunteers from a local high school. The singer of the National Anthem wasn’t any sort of celebrity (unlike in Los Angeles or New York) but a talented local.
The other fans in our section were regulars, and knew Pat and her fellow ushers, and were quite happy to carry conversations with their neighbors and - despite looking like stockbrokers with a hairdresser on standby - delighted to do their part to sing "Take me out to the ballgame" in the seventh inning. All in all, it felt like being at a village fair, except we were all there to watch millionaires scratch their crotches spit, and occasionally chase after a ball.
|Sneaky sneaky boy.|
Aside from the people watching, I entertained myself by trying to take action shots during the brief seconds when there was anything resembling action. I still don’t much like baseball, but apparently I quite like going to baseball games.