The Sporkball Journals

Play Ball!

July 13th, 2008

July 13, 2008 — Coming to the ballpark is the social event of the evening for a middle-aged gal like yours truly. First thing after climbing the stairs, I swing by to see Joe at the Customer Service Desk, who always has a warm smile and “It’s great to see you tonight!” waiting for me. On my way past the homeplate entrance, I tap souvenir vendor Paul on the shoulder and wave—I don’t want to interrupt his sales pitch. He’ll return the greeting when he comes down my aisle to sell souvenirs later during the game. Somewhere near Section 8, I’ll stop to chat with ushers Larry or LaRue, among the few still here after ownership changed hands in 2005. We talk about last night’s game and gossip about players who’ve been called up.

Photo credit | Rick R Dykhuizen AAA Photos Used with permission.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, I survey who’s hanging out at the wall below. The Franklin Covey Irregulars include children and adults, fans and players, all lined up like sparrows on a fence rail. There’s shaggy bearded Richard, journalist Bill, Moneyball Chris, Rick, Brendan, Dave, Ian, Peyton, Katja, Steve, Wingate, Anna, Rita. When I look along the wall towards the outfield, I remember where Dave “NetMan” used to station himself, further removed from the card-signing frenzy. (Dave passed away suddenly this past March. I miss you Big Guy!) On Saturdays, I can expect to hear “Helloooo!” from Bob up in the balcony behind me. If I don’t turn around and wave, you can be sure I’ll be in for a chiding the next time we meet. It always makes me feel a bit like Norm from the old TV show Cheers.

One of my favorite families at the ballpark is a young couple with two young children, a boy and girl. The father remembers coming to Derk’s Field, and he and his wife are well on their way to extending the tradition to the next generation. Their daughter considers the park her playground, where she is frequently reminded to share her personal playmate, Bumble, with the other kids who don’t get to see him as much as she does.

Her favorite player is catcher Ryan Budde. With a little help from mom and dad, she remembers to bring him cake and a card on his birthday. She has an entire collection of Budde-Gear—pink game jerseys, Knothole Club shirts, batting gloves, broken (and intact) bats and goodness knows how many balls and snapshots—all adorned with his handwriting. Her Rally Monkey wears the #48 on its MLB Angels jersey, Budde’s number when he got his first major-league RBI, a 10th-inning, walk-off double against the Yankees. Every time he walks by the seats, she loudly squeaks “Budde! Budde!” Even during a game, he’ll look over, smile and wave. Another of her favorites is a former Bees outfielder who now plays for the Round Rock Express. On the roster, his first name is “Nick” and last name “Gorneault,” however it is a little known secret that in fact, he has only one name—Nickernoe.

One rare evening her dad showed up at the ballpark alone, explaining his daughter was sick and so she stayed home. Around the 6th inning, his cell phone rang and I heard something like the following:

“Hi! Oh good. Uh, huh,. . .I see. Well, no, you can come tomorrow. I understand, but the game is almost over. Uh, huh. I promise we’ll come tomorrow. Uh, huh. Yes, it’s almost over and I’ll be home pretty soon.”

He hung up the phone and laughingly filled in the other side of the conversation, “Daddy, I’ve stopped throwing up. So I think I can go to the game now. I’m feeling better now, so will you come get me?”

Long ago during the Buzz years, a family sat down behind me with a rather disgruntled teenage daughter in tow. At the start of the game she remarked, “Why are those guys sitting out there by themselves instead of with the rest of the team?” She figured she was going to be bored and brought a book to read. Instead she never cracked a page and we all had a wonderful time. Around the 7th inning, they bought a ball from the souvenir shop, signed it and gave it to me as a memento of our good time. Guess whose idea that was? Yup! Same young woman. Of course I still have the ball, although I never saw that lovely family at the park again.

All of these wonderful vignettes make an evening at the ballpark special. I can’t even remember how many kids have tentatively made their way down the stairs and asked if they could sit in an empty seat. I’ve cajoled balls from umpires for kids who weren’t my own and thanked base coaches for balls that I didn’t get. I’ve entertained bored little ones with stickers and drawings. I’ve watched batboys arrive as teenagers, grow up and leave for college; still teenagers, just taller versions.

This eclectic assortment of folks—young, old and all enjoying the game with me—are a big reason I’ve kept on singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” season after season since 1994. Bye for now!

Entry Filed under: Minor Leagues, Salt Lake Bees, Salt Lake Buzz