September 25, 1998
Take Me Out To The Ballpark. (Just Don't Make Me EAT One.)


Mini-Scene From My Evening, Moments Ago:

SecraTerri:
Quick. Give me a topic.

MsBobo417:
baseball

SecraTerri:
Ack.

MsBobo417:
[g]

MsBobo417:
mcgwire and sosa both hit #66 HR tonight

SecraTerri:
I'm NOT gonna write about baseball.

MsBobo417:
well, you weren't specific

MsBobo417:
so bite me

SecraTerri:
Give me a topic about which to write this evening's JOURNAL ENTRY. Specific enough?

MsBobo417:
that is MUCH much better

SecraTerri:
Bite me.

MsBobo417:
my answer:

MsBobo417:
baseball

SecraTerri:
I seriously hate you.


Well, you heard it folks: the topic of tonight's fabulous journal entry is ...

... BASEBALL.  A topic about which I know next-to-nothing, and care even less ... which of course does not stop me from having SRIDENT opinions about the subject. (And if any of you have a *problem* with tonight's Journal Topic, I cordially invite you to drop a line to MsBobo417@aol.com and tell her that next time you want me to write about vomit some more.)

So here's what I know about baseball.

Thing Number One.  My first real boyfriend  --  in fifth grade  --  was a Little League wunderkind. His name was Brad DuBois, and every weekend my best friend Anita and I would ride our bikes down to Sunset Park and sit on the bleachers drinking Shasta Grape Soda, watching him play. I still remember the goosepimply way I felt, watching him standing there on the mound in his natty little "Burien Fuel" uniform, his hair all askew and dirt on his nose, winding up for the pitch. Of course I took great pains never to let him know I was watching him: that would have thrown his concentration, for one thing. And it would have indicated genuine interest on my part, which (at age eleven or twelve) is very uncool.

So I waited until he was busy with the game, and then I would take a quicky sneaky peek at him.

One Saturday, I had my brother give Brad a "going steady" ring, which I'd shoplifted earlier from White Front. I was too embarrassed to give it to Brad myself, but I still wanted him to understand the depth and breadth of my affection for him. I came to school the following Monday, expecting to see the ring hanging from a chain around his neck  -- the accepted going-steady protocol for our particular fifth grade class  --  but he wasn't wearing it. Neither was he sitting in his usual seat, two desks behind mine: he'd moved to the very back of the classroom, next to Donald Morse and William Dopp. Neither did he walk me home from school that afternoon. As a matter of fact, basically he never spoke to me again (except for that drunken party in tenth grade when he took me downstairs to Steve Peterson's family room and felt me up, just for old times' sake).

And that is one of the things I know about baseball.


Thing Number Two.  In the spring of 1978 I went to the very first Seattle Mariners baseball game with my father and my grandfather. I was twenty years old, in my second year of junior college, feeling very sophisticated and cosmopolitan ... until Dad and Grandpa ordered beer for themselves from the concession stand, and I had to content myself with a $2.50 plastic cup of Tab because I wasn't yet of "legal drinking age" (and because I didn't want my nice Grandpa to know that I drank like a FISH). Joe DiMaggio threw the opening pitch that night, and 45,000 people gave him a standing ovation. I sat there in my nosebleed seat all evening, in between my father and grandfather, sipping my watery Tab, and I stared down at the 100 level at the top of Mr. DiMaggio's silvery white head and thought about how famous he was, and how he used to be married to Marilyn Monroe, and how everyone in the Kingdome that night knew who he was, and how millions of other people around the world knew who he was too, and how interesting it was to be under the same roof with such an honest-to-goodness legend. I remember absolutely nothing about the game. I don't even know who the Mariners were playing, or whether they won or lost or scored, even. All I remember about that night was surreptitiously enviously watching Dad and Grandpa drink their beer ... and looking at the top of Joe DiMaggio's head for two hours.

And that's another thing I know about baseball.

Thing Number Three.  Men who wear baseball caps all the time are actually bald. Fortunately the baseball cap manages to *cleverly disguise* this fact. [snort]


Thing Number Four. 
I used to love hotdogs ... especially barbecued hot dogs, or hot dogs cut up into little pieces and mixed together with cottage cheese and ketchup ... but then I accidentally read the ingredients on the label of a package of BallParks one day.  That was pretty much the end of hotdogs for me.


Thing Number Five.  A couple of baseball players this season are attempting to break some sort of home run record, set back in the 50's by some guy that nobody liked. One of them is named Mark McGuinn, and he used to play for The Byrds; the other one is named Sammy Something, and he's got a fabulous tan. These two players are best friends, and publicly supportive of each other, and shining examples of traditional American values and good sportsmanship and expensive PR firms at their very finest. Mark McGuinn actually managed to break the record a couple of weeks ago.  It was an exciting moment for sports in general and local TV Sports Puppets all across the country -- I know that here in Oregon City it was a most welcome break from "Keiko: The Endless, Mind-Numbing, 'No-Wonder-They-Think-We're-Idiots-Here-In-Oregon' Journey Home" -- but then Sammy Something went on to break the NEW record almost immediately, and now the two of them are neck-and-neck in this wildly exciting race to see who can re-break the broken record. In the meantime, Ken Griffey Jr. is sitting in the dugout, constructing Mark and Sammy voodoo dolls.


And that, Dear Reader, is basically everything I know about baseball.

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