Today pops and I were gonna go hit the links. Unfortunately, Baseline Golf Club was stacked. There were 16 carts in front of us, and even though the starter told us there was a good chance that he could get a twosome out walkin in under half an hour - we still would've been waiting all day at every other tee, every other shot - all round long. So we turned round, went back to the clubhouse, recovered his money, then hopped in the van and headed down to Lakeland.
Apparently I'd been to Lakeland before. Back in '81. I don't remember. That's just what pops tells me. He also tells me the Tigers lost that day.We didn't know who was playin today. Pops knew there was a game was all.
I'd skipped breakfast, so when we finally got down to the ballfield about a half hour before game time we made a b-line for the concession stand. On the way in I'd noticed a coupla folks with Yankee caps on, and wondered aloud whether I was about to sit down and watch the Tigers try to take on the only team in the majors that had to pay the luxury penalty last season. Not only that, but witness two of those ballplayers named in the ongoing steroid controversy - Sheffield and Giambi. Not only that - but damn I hot the Yankees!
I felt a twinge of guilt for dressing my polish sausage and hot dog during the national anthem, but felt it would be better to continue smearing packets of spicy mustard around instead of standing in front of the condiments and holding up the line. Especially since so many of those standing behind me were extremely overzealous in their positioning - throwing out an albow where there was no room for such an extremity. Then there were those who walking, cut across the path where there was no room to cut. Truth of the matter was, the Yankees fans were everywhere. They'd bought up all the seats, and now were advancing, along with us, the late arrivals, towards the outfield lawn.
The sun was blazing overhead -- there wasn't a cloud in the sky...A good breeze was blowin in from behind us - towards home plate. The PA boomed out early on, "Game time temperature in New York, 34 degrees, Detroit, 28 degrees - and here in Lakeland, a sunshiney 69 degrees." The crowd roared back one of its loudest cheers of the game. Later, I remarked to pops how quiet it was, and that it would probably be just about this loud come midseason at a game in Comerica Park.
We sat for a while at a table up atop the hill in the general admission area, finishing up our dogs, crunching some peanut shells under our feet, me washin it all down with my first beer in quite a while. It was peaceful. Until that loudmouth next to us roared out to a coupla college kids - "You know, I didn't pay six to eight bucks to stare at your back!"
This much was technically true. He didn't. But he also didn't pay the six to eight bucks to reserve the picnic table in the shade for his fat ass to sit on. He could've just as easily picked up and moved on down to the grassy knoll, where he could sit to his hearts content and watch the game unfold. This was general admission, not ass submission. Unfortunately, we were subjected to this ass on a few more occasions. (Perhaps it's just one of my pet peeves, but this kinda stuff drives me crazy - especially at concerts, when twenty rows in front of you are standing and the speaker's point is rendered mute. Here it was rendered mute by the vast land before him where he could pop a squat.)
The day was enjoyable. Lazy. And I bear the scars to prove it. As I sit here and type into the early hours of the morning - the right side of my face is burning. Only half of it managed to get seared red. I look the fool. But it was worth it. I won't bother with a recap of the game. Reading it just made me realize that I took my potty break at precisely the wrong moment -- missing Bubba's inside the park grand slam. But hey -- I saw the other twelve runs of the game.
poor alan trammel
