It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!
Tim, my co-worker and avid blog reader, called me into his office a few weeks ago. He’s only been here a year, so I figured there was some basic principle of the tax code that he failed to grasp, for which my help was required. “Jason,” he asks, “what are you doing next Thursday?” Puzzled, I reply, “Nothing, probably.” “It’s the last day game for the Nationals this year,” he sagely suggests. “I’m in,” I eagerly reply.
And there we are, on a shockingly temperate and sunny August afternoon, in the ancient behemoth that is Robert. F. Kennedy Stadium. Tim, again wisely, has brought in sunflower seeds. The draft Coors Lights slide down the throat like Rickey Henderson stealing second. The concourse smells of kosher dogs and spilt beer. The baseball diamond shines brilliant under the glow of Helios. What a bastard is nighttime baseball! The crack of the Northern White Ash against a Livan Hernandez fastball!
The Cincinnati Reds, one of baseball’s most hopeless franchises, was in town, which might seem disappointing but for the fact that Ken Griffey Jr. still prowls centerfield for these Red Stockings. Griff’, as is well known, has been plagued by injuries the last few seasons, but it’s hard for me to forget the sweetness that he was when roaming the outfiled in the Kingdome some years past. That fluid, compact left-handed swing. The swagger. That homerun trot, complete with the bat toss. The boyish grin. The seventh inning, Griffey is at the plate, and BOOM, he launches his thirtieth homerun of the year into the seats!
The seventh inning stretch! Raise your voice, lift your glass, and on your feet: Take Me Out to the Ballgame.
Daytime baseball, my old dear friend, how I’ve missed you in my seven-year hiatus in the Nation’s Capital.
And there we are, on a shockingly temperate and sunny August afternoon, in the ancient behemoth that is Robert. F. Kennedy Stadium. Tim, again wisely, has brought in sunflower seeds. The draft Coors Lights slide down the throat like Rickey Henderson stealing second. The concourse smells of kosher dogs and spilt beer. The baseball diamond shines brilliant under the glow of Helios. What a bastard is nighttime baseball! The crack of the Northern White Ash against a Livan Hernandez fastball!
The Cincinnati Reds, one of baseball’s most hopeless franchises, was in town, which might seem disappointing but for the fact that Ken Griffey Jr. still prowls centerfield for these Red Stockings. Griff’, as is well known, has been plagued by injuries the last few seasons, but it’s hard for me to forget the sweetness that he was when roaming the outfiled in the Kingdome some years past. That fluid, compact left-handed swing. The swagger. That homerun trot, complete with the bat toss. The boyish grin. The seventh inning, Griffey is at the plate, and BOOM, he launches his thirtieth homerun of the year into the seats!
The seventh inning stretch! Raise your voice, lift your glass, and on your feet: Take Me Out to the Ballgame.
Daytime baseball, my old dear friend, how I’ve missed you in my seven-year hiatus in the Nation’s Capital.
posted by Jason at 09:35
3 Comments:
I love to go to baseball games! The last one I saw was the Athletics at Kansas City. E.K. Stadium is pretty nice but it's the only pro stadium that I've been to.
Lacking a team down here, I pine away for my days at my undisclosed Northern ancestral home, and pine for the days of underage drinking and watching an awful franchise have its stuff handed to them most nights.
Ah, baseball, the only major American sport that is not governed by clocks and goals, the one that is not an elaborate fertility metaphor.
But I'm rambling. Enjoyed the post.
By the way, since you keep cheating me out of my moleskin points, John Fogerty, "Centerfield." I play it, really loud, every opening day, despite the fact that I am not a brown-eyed, handsome man. Put me in, coach. I'm ready to play, today.
Post a Comment
<< Home