I go to baseball games on occasion. Mostly Texas Rangers games because they're closest to my house; well, that, and I have this knack for rooting for teams that just aren't that good that often.
To be honest I'd rather just stay home and watch the Rangers play on TV with my good friends Craig and Jaime. I can usually see more that way. The City of Dallas is stupid, so the stadium was placed in Arlington. Plus let's all be honest. The Ballpark in Arlington is a tourist zone. What do people come to Dallas to do? Shop. Go to Six Flags and Hurricane Harbor. See where JFK got shot. And since we're staying in Arlington we might as well go to a Rangers game.
That's why by the fourth inning the wave is already underway.
I hate the wave. People do the wave because they are completely disinterested in the game of baseball. They've downed their beer (or soda), polished off their hotdog and had a little ice cream. Since to entertain themselves for the next 5 innings by eating would require a second mortgage, they must come up with something to do to pass the time.
I know! I'm going to stand up, yell like an idiot about nothing for one full second and tell the guy beside me to pass it on. Then all the poor, bored souls will have something to do.
I apologize. I seem to have gotten off track.
For all that I dislike about the ballpark where my favorite team plays, I still go pretty often. And I try to never turn down free tickets; which is where our dark tragedy begins.
"They're 13 rows behind home plate," I told my wife.
"Oh, well then you've gotta go."
"You sure it's cool. I know I was supposed to watch the dogs."
"You have to go. Those seats are too good. I'll take care of the dogs."
"You rock."
I knew she was cool with me going, but I also knew that we both had early mornings the next day. It was a Wednesday night after all. And the game is in Arlington. If it's close, I'll definitely stay to the end. But if it's not, I'll leave early, beat the traffic and be home before 10 instead of after 11. She'll appreciate that.
The seats were amazing. I'd never sat that close before. We were definitely in easy foul ball territory. In fact, one came within two rows of us almost immediately. We all lost it in the sky, as the sun had yet to set, and the sky had that washed out look. It wasn't white, but it wasn't blue either. Apparently the family in front of us lost it, too, as they all bent over to shield their heads.
The dad would've been better off shielding his daughter, who was about 5 years old, because the ball slammed down in the middle of her back. Her little brother, only three at the oldest, grabbed the ball excitedly and then fired it down the aisle toward the protective net. I guess that's all he knew to do with a ball. The girl held up pretty well. I would've too if the ballpark ushers had come down and consoled me and then brought me a free glove and a free t-shirt. A nice fan brought the ball back to the girl, too.
We had taken an early one run lead, and in the third Ian Kinsler began what would turn out to be an 8 run inning by hitting a missile of a homerun to straightaway center field. It was amazing to watch from directly behind him.
The most impressive of the 8 runs were the four driven in by Nelson Cruz with one swing of the bat. That's right the almighty salami, The Grand Slam. Not only did we get the runs, but an army seargant, just back from Iraq, happened to be in the seat slated to win $10,000 if just such a thing occurred that inning. He received a deserved standing ovation when that was discovered.
I know what you're saying. Where's the tragedy? Sounds like a great day at the ballpark. True.
I looked at the clock on the right field scoreboard. 9:15. We were winning 9-2. The top of the 8th inning was just underway.
"Boys. I gotta get outta here. Me and the wife have early mornings and I know she won't go to bed without me. I think I'm gonna beat the traffic."
"Alright, man."
"Mike, thanks for the seats dude. They were perfect."
"No problem."
And with that I headed to my truck. When I was settled inside, I decided to finish listening to the game on the radio. I knew we were going to win, but I just like baseball, so why not?
And then it happened. Bottom of the eighth, Angels pitcher Kevin Gregg threw a pitch behind Ian Kinsler.
Oh, man! It's happening. That's the thought that ran through my head as I drove away.
You see the Rangers and Angels don't exactly like each other. There's a little bad blood between the two clubs because the Rangers keep hitting Angels batters and well, the Angels keep beating the crap out of the Rangers. The Angels feel they owe the Rangers a little payback for some of those hit batters. And it was happening. And if the conditions were just right, it might get ugly.
Both benches are warned not to throw anymore beanballs. But on his next batter, Kevin Gregg beans Michael Young.
Ejected.
Bring in Brendan Donnelly. Immediately he drills Freddy Guzman in the back.
Ejected. Too far? Maybe. Or was that what the Angels felt needed to happen to even the score.
The clouds were brewing over the ballpark like a heat driven West Texas afternoon thunderstorm. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
The eighth inning mercifully came to an end. The Rangers send in Scott Feldman to close out the game in the ninth. After securing the first two outs pretty easily, it happened.
As I was turning onto my street, Feldman pegged Adam Kennedy. He said the ball got away from him. The Rangers managers said he was told specifically not to hit any Angels. But the truth is that obviously the Rangers believed the Angels went too far throwing behind Kinsler, hitting Young and hitting Guzman.
Regardless, Kennedy charged the mound, with Rangers catcher Gerald Laird in hot pursuit. But Feldman didn't back down. Stepping forward, he yanked his glove off and swung for Kennedy. Kennedy dodged, only getting hit in the shoulder, but the next thing he knew he was on the ground as Mark DeRosa had swooped in from third and laid a perfect form tackle onto the surprised Kennedy.
Benches cleared. Bullpens raced in from center field to get in on the action.
And I sat in my truck with the full realization that I may never again have seats that great for a real Major League Baseball bench clearing, bullpen emptying brawl. I thought I was going to be sick.
I had walked out, to be a good husband sure, but I had walked out.
So to all you ladies out there, if you're man wants to get to a sporting event 30 minutes before the game begins, and if he wants to stay right up to the end, even if the game is well in hand, I'm not saying that you must oblige, but remember this: You never know what you may get to witness.
And that's what makes us guys want to be there for every second if we have a ticket. We don't want to be that guy, the guy I was. The guy who says, "Yeah. I was at that game, but I left early," and then watch as your buddy's face fails to hide his feelings of pitty and shame on your behalf.
And that, my friends, is tragic.
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