Flirting with Baseball
By Mary Matus
I’ve finally experienced the great American pasttime. Of course, you know I’m talking about baseball.

Although I used to follow the Phillies somewhat when I was a kid, I have to confess my interest over the years has shifted to football. (I blame four years of high school marching band and going to every football game.) After discovering football, baseball seemed so - I don’t know - non-violent. As I explained to my friends, “Maybe if they tried to tackle the base runners or something.”

Despite all this, I recently jumped at the chance to attend a company
picnic at a minor league baseball game. I had never actually been to a baseball game and I thought it might be fun. Besides, how could I turn down free tickets and free food?

Well, all day long the weather wasn’t looking good. It could only be described by the technical meteorological term of “icky.” And it kept getting ickier and ickier until game time. The ironic thing was our area was in sort of a drought. We really needed the rain. It just could have waited until another day. Needless to say, a few of us were miffed at the co-worker who said it was going to be a “lovely” day.

It was one of those times when arriving fashionably late was not a
good idea. By the time we got our food, the tables with the umbrellas had already been filled. I watched in amusement as three people at my table tried to find a way to eat while holding an umbrella. But I had remembered to throw my poncho in my car before leaving that morning, so I was prepared.

Our seats were general admission and not box seats, and I’ve never been so happy to be sitting with the masses. If there was a choice between being close enough to smell the players’ sweat and being nice and dry under the roof, I choose being dry. Besides, I wouldn’t have to worry about the very real danger of flying foul balls in my direction. (I have this fear of objects flying at my face. I was one of those kids in high school gym class who would duck every time a ball came in my general direction.)

Although the game itself was very fun to watch, my co-workers made it a lot more interesting by deciding I needed a man and trying to figure out which of the ballplayers would be my type. My editor zeroed in on a player from the opposing team named Whitney, claiming that only a poet would be named Whitney. After he struck out at bat the first time, she took it as proof that he was a writer, since he couldn‘t seem to hit the ball. Of course, when he did hit the ball, she proclaimed, “Oh, he can hit and he can write!” She spent half the game trying to get me to give him my phone number and yelling out “Yoohoo! Whitney!”

So I suppose you’re wondering if I’ve been converted to a baseball fan. While I do have a new appreciation of the game, I’m sorry to say I probably won’t be a regular at the local baseball games. Though if I do go, I probably won’t be sitting next to my editor again.

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