Little-known fact: I like me some baseball. I do. I have been known to be a colossal pain in the ass to sit next to during a baseball game, because I tend to behave as if I could physically help propel a runner toward a base just by jerking my body in certain directions whilst making inarticulate noises that are probably better for guiding in dolphins.
I'm that kind of fan. I get angry. I cajole. I make inappropriate bargains with God if he'll just give the Rangers one decent hot bat. I still hold a grudge against CJ Wilson for his antics last season, and have only just started to come back around.
But I also notice the fans in the stands. There are the bandwagoners that obviously have never been to a Rangers game but typed "dinger" in their computers one day and discovered that in addition to some very odd porn, you can also get a 75% discount on Rangers tickets. There are the women trying to attract a player, the ones generally bedecked in outfits best suited for Cougartown, and not a 100 degree ballgame. There are your die-hard fans, your blow hard fans, and your weird old ladies with drums and questionable dance moves.
And then there's you. Yeah, you. This blog post is dedicated to the schmuck in the stands last night. You know who you are. The guy over near third, sitting a few rows up from the wall, right in front of the ball girl. The one who was one Princess Leia in a gold bikini away from being Jabba the Hut. You.
You are an assclown, sir.
When that pop-up foul ball plopped to the ground in front of the ball girl and she scooped it up, you took advantage of your corpulent yet impressive wingspan to wave your arms in a maniacal fashion and snatch the ball up as she tossed it into the stands. But in front of you was a preteen boy, standing, glove in hand, who had been waiting patiently to catch a ball all night.
And as he raised his gloved hand to catch the proffered ball, you reached up and snatched it out of the air like it was a prize taquito, and then clutched it to your impressive man boob, grinning like a slackjaw yokel.
You committed one of what I consider to be the cardinal sins of baseball game attendance. You shit on a kid.
You see, I've been to enough games to know that every little boy (and many little girls, if allowed by parents who don't care about gender stereotypes) to catch a ball. They're like those husband-hunting hoochies who buy tickets by the bullpen, only with purer intent, and without it being a double entendre.
But these kids take their gloves to the game and nervously - and excitedly - watch the trajectory of every single ball as it flies through the air. They don't eat, they don't drink, they just keep their cute little eyes on the many balls flying through the ballpark.
You made your schlubby way to your seat and kept the beer flowing. You have no glove. Until the ball girl eyed the stands to toss the ball up there, you had no interest at all in touching leather tonight.
The classy thing to do is this: Don't shit on the kid. If you catch a ball in the stands, and you are over 18, manners and class demand that you hand that ball over to any child that could've also caught that ball. It's a law and everything. I looked.
The Rangers beat the Twins 11-1 last night, and if they go on to duplicate that success (and Boston suddenly grabs a losing streak and the Angels fall off the face of the earth), they could extend their season well in to fall.
And if last night's game was the beginning of all that, I really hope that kid will be able to say, "I was at that game, it was awesome."
But in the back of his mind, he'll follow it up with, "But remember that jackass that took my ball?"
So congratulations on becoming an addendum to that kid's ballpark experience. And, by the way, five minutes later another ball was thrown into that area, and the adults did the appropriate thing - they let the little boy catch it. And while I know it's not as fun as a funnel cake, his joy was obvious as he looked down at that ball, big grin firmly affixed to his cute little face, as he moved the ball back and forth between his gloved hand and his bare hand.
That's what going to a baseball game is about. So quit being an assclown, assclown.
