Chick Chapeaux

On a chilly night at Camden Yards when the most memorable moments should have been...

... standing so close to Jonathan Papelbon that I could have touched him...

... being so cold that I had to have a conversation with a merchandise vendor explaining that I wanted to buy socks and not Sox gear...

... watching the O’s taunt Red Sox fans with the opening strains of “Sweet Caroline” only to have it come to a screeching halt with a giant Jumbotron graphic, “NOT!”...

... and jumping up with absolute euphoria as Wily Mo Pena took the pitcher yard with a grand slam in the top of the 8th...

I was forced to deal with the one thing that trumped all of them in my memory bank:

The pink hat.

When my friend Izzie and I arrived at the ballpark, we made a beeline down to the left field wall to catch a glimpse of the Red Sox during warm-ups. A girl to our left immediately struck up a conversation with us, gushing over the fact that we were mere inches away from the players. She was wearing a pink hat, a Forever 21 choker, two tank tops and a hoodie, and glitter eyeshadow. She was exactly the type of girl I have railed against before… the girl who thinks she has to wear pink and be glam at the ballpark. But then something strange happened… the more she talked, the more I realized she was the exact opposite of the stereotype. She was identifying players by name, plotting her strategy for snagging a batting practice ball, and referring to the New England Sports Network commentators as if they were long-lost friends. Izzie and I were dumfounded as she blinked her glitter-covered eyelids with excitement. This was a pink hat we could respect, and I knew I had to recant my entire position in this column.

But hold on one second...

Shortly after we took our seats along the left field line, a family of five barreled into the row. Mom was wearing a pink hat, as was daughter, while dad, son, and grandpa were all sporting the proper Red Sox colors. I was prepared to give the pink hats the benefit of the doubt after the encounter with our friend, but then mom lifted her sausage sandwich in my direct line of vision. Then she lifted her arm to point out a bird in center field. Then she took her jacket off and replaced it with a sweatshirt. Then she shoved her ponytail in my face to take pictures of everything but the field. Then she hoisted her daughter onto her lap. If she saw five pitches during the entire game, I’d be shocked. Suddenly I realized that she wasn’t proudly touting the Red Sox with her hat, but rather she had chosen the most palatable article of clothing for a boring night at the ballpark. The stereotype lives, and our friend near the field was just a pink hat anomaly.

Then the pièce de résistance...

It was sometime in the 5th when I heard Izzie grumble. I looked up, and there before me on the Jumbotron was this advertisement for an upcoming Orioles promotion:

That’s right… Women’s Cap Day on May 6th at Camden Yards. Pink hats for the first 22,000 female fans through the gates. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me wants to go to the game that day just for the satisfaction of saying, “No, thanks,” or just taking the hat and having a ritual burning with all of my pink-hat-hating friends later. But I don’t know if I can because the thought of sitting in a stadium with 22,000 pink hats makes my blood boil. If management wants to appeal to women, how about giving away women’s cut t-shirts? I love a free t-shirt as much as the next person, but not when they’re all extra larges that hang to your knees. So what about that? Huh? Why does it have to be pink? Do they think that women will come in droves for the chance at a free pink hat? C’mon! Give us more credit than that!

But I’ll stop for now. I hear there’s a sale on pink fanny packs, and I just have to have one.