HerSportsPOV: Notes From Camden Yards

The Curse Reversed

I went to my last Red Sox game of the season on Sunday, and I’m relieved to say that I am no longer the living, breathing epitome of a black cat or a crack in the sidewalk. The Red Sox had gone 1-3 in games when I was rooting for them in person, but they squeaked by the Orioles with a 3-2 win in the blazing September sun at Camden Yards, thus breaking a streak that has caused me to have many a sleepless night.

There were some bursts of excitement on the field, but funny enough, the actual game ended up being the least noteworthy thing about this entire excursion.

Tailgate

The morning began with a tailgate in the parking lot underneath the highway outside Ravens Stadium or M&T Stadium or whatever.

Now I do not claim to know the art of the tailgate. I’ve eaten chicken salad out of the trunk of a car in the parking lot before a Maroon 5 concert. I joined a group of old Archives guards after a Redskins game and sampled some fine barbecue. I’ve even sat in the bed of a pick-up, with my hand shoved in a chip bag, marveling at the vim and vigor of the Barra Brava. But I’m no connoisseur of the tailgate.

With little schooling on the subject, I set out to organize the finest spread a wallet the week before pay-day could buy. The Red Sox and Orioles were set to take the field at 1:35, so our group settled on a breakfast tailgate, complete with bagels, donuts, and munchkins from that bastion of Yankee* ingenuity, Dunkin Donuts. Every bit of doughy goodness was sloshed down with generic orange juice, and suddenly we felt energized to accept our challenge as road representatives of the Nation.

Chanting Is Not Cheerleading

I was in a bar with some of these same cohorts in crime on a night several weeks ago when one pal came up with a soccer-style chant for Jason Varitek. It was catchy, it had rhythm, it was the perfect cap to an evening during which many a Sam Adams brew had flowed.

We had yet to break it out in public though… that is until Sunday.

When the captain of the Red Sox stepped to the plate, a friend and I seized the opportunity to receive the stares of several fans around us. Not quite sure what to make of the chant emanating from left field, they looked at us like we had just dropped the top girl in the pyramid.

And then it dawned on me. Was I cheerleading at a baseball game?

Then faster than you can say, “Bring it on,” my mind said, “No, you’re chanting.” That’s different.

It is, isn’t it?

“Varitek! Varitek! Swing it, swing it! Not a check! Varitek! Varitek! Go on, go on, give ‘em heck!”

Right?

Detrol LA

My best friend once sent for literature in my name after watching one of those “Gotta go” commercials. She thought it would be hysterical because I have an active bladder. It was funny, but what isn’t quite so amusing is my penchant for missing the good stuff while going to the bathroom.

Let me preface this by saying that the gametime temperature was 93 degrees. We were sitting directly in the sun, and I was wearing a polyester jersey. Blinking was enough exertion to make me sweat, so the chances of my needing to use the ladies’ room at any point during the game were slim to none. Except in the 6th inning when I decided that my need for nachos and my belief that I should go to the bathroom just because I was in a 20 yard radius of a toilet prevailed.

I was just buttoning up my shorts when I heard the foghorns go off, signaling a Baltimore homerun. I was annoyed that they had hit the dinger, but even more irritated that I had missed it. The action had been limited thus far thanks to my boy Beckett’s commanding presence, so any bit of bingo for either side was something I wanted to see.

When I got back to my seat, I realized just how much I had missed, and the homerun was last on the list. Turns out, location is everything and the homerun landed three rows in front of us, which meant our seats had been on TV. The problem was that the ball was not caught on the fly. It didn’t ricochet or rattle around in an empty seat. Instead it slammed squarely into the face of a fan who made an ill-fated attempt to one-hand it while still cradling his souvenir beer. The EMTs were working to care for the man when I sat down, and I felt terrible about the scene before me. Izzie told me that I would not have wanted to see it, that the sound it made was awful, that a small child had actually burst into tears. But… and I’m ashamed to admit it… there’s a small part of me that’s a little bit jealous of my friends who saw it. I can still tell the story of what happened, but it’s still not quite as good as if I had seen it with my own eyes. I know that’s wrong, and I really do feel badly, but people who rubberneck in glass houses shouldn’t throw baseballs.

All in all, I blame my bladder. If I didn’t have an active bladder, I never would have decided to go just for the hell of it, and I would have been there to see a little piece of history unfold three rows in front of me.

Oh, who am I kidding? I still would have gotten up for the nachos.

Piece de Resistance

After Jonathan Papelbon had safely secured the game for Beckett, the Red Sox, and fans everywhere, our little group made its way out to the tunnel. The ladies in our bunch decided a pitstop was mandatory thanks to an unfortunate encounter with the port-o-potties in the parking lot earlier. As we pushed the door open and got in line, Izzie called my attention to the most magnificent sight I have seen since Lindsay Lohan’s last mugshot. There before us, sitting on top of a garbage can overflowing with dirty paper towels lay a pink hat. Our minds started swimming with possibilities as to how it got there. Did a boyfriend buy it for his girl and she was offended? Did the boyfriend give it to her as a gift, and they had some fight at the game and the purging of the hat was a symbol of the destruction of their relationship? Was it… eh, who knows, but what I do know is that there has never been a more appropriate home for a pink hat!

Is This Heaven?

When the sun’s rays stopped frying us and the game started to wind down, I looked up and noticed how beautiful the clouds were. I grabbed my camera and fired off a few shots before taking the one below. When I finally uploaded it, I couldn’t help but think of the question, “Is this heaven?”

It sure is. Good baseball, good friends, good times.