Going to a baseball game!

I had forgotten the thrill of walking up the steps toward the plaza where Polish dogs and beer wait for me. I had forgotten the feeling of a soft summer night at the ball park, hearing the crack of a bat, watching the players trot to their places on the playing field, the taste of the aforesaid Polish, kraut, and beer, and the simple pleasure of feeling the warm air on my skin under the baseball lights. We went to a Royals game last night, and though they lost, I felt happy just to be there.

Thanks to a friend, we sat on the second row back from the visitors' dugout, close to the field, close to the little kids who swarmed down the aisle at the end of each inning, hoping against hope to snag a ball thrown by a member of the visiting team into the crowd. We cheered with the crowd when someone made a good play, became disgruntled with the umpire when he continued to allow a low strike zone, and just felt as if nothing in the world could be wrong because we were at Royals Stadium (I cannot to this day denigrate Mr. Kauffman by calling it "The K"). What a night!

I also remembered wondering, all those years ago, when I went to a game about every other day, what it would be like to be paid to play a game that I loved. At some point, I recalled the day my mother told me that my father could no longer afford to buy the season tickets that had made him feel so successful, and I recalled feeling as if somehow, life would not be quite the same. I felt sad, too, when I remembered seeing Paul Splittorff pitch in game after game, and then I recalled my anger when Whitey Herzog took him out of one of the Yankees-Royals playoff games. I knew he would have been able to get them out, but Whitey didn't trust him. We lost that game.

What a mixture of feelings at such a special event! I had forgotten. I am glad to have remembered.