We Took 'Em Out To The Ball Game

It kinda felt like a Mastercard commercial -- you know, the ones that always end in "Priceless." Though you could easily substitute "Pricey." Much money was spent bewteen the tickets, the hot dogs, the lemonade, the peanuts (well, they didn't go for the peanuts, which required too much work and then didn't taste sufficiently like peanut butter), the frozen treats. But there we were at Dodger Stadium with our four-year-olds attending their very first major league baseball game, seated between home plate and first base, not exactly in a field box, but close enough for a pretty good view. The kids clutched Webkinz koala bears: the first 15,000 kids were handed the stuffed koalas upon entrance to the stadium, because it just happened to be Kid Appreciation Day. The National Anthem was sung by the crowd, hats on hearts, as an elementary school string ensemble sawed it out on violin (another nod to Kid Appreciation Day), the line-ups were announced, the players took the field, and baseball began. The kids were enthralled.


Though truth be told, it was the snacks, more than the baseball, that held them in thrall.

But for the first time, they heard the crack of bat against ball, unfiltered by the TV. They heard the crowd's boisterous reactions to home runs and stolen bases, some reactions too loud for my son, who held his hands on his ears. They witnessed the wave, if not exactly participating in it. They heard the organ and the chants of "Charge!" that reminded them of Yosemite Sam. And pretty soon, my daughter, her face smeared in syrup from cherry Italian ices, declared that we must come back here again.

The first couple of innings, I earnestly tried to explain the game, in preschool terms, to my boy (Thing 1); my girl (Thing 2) was too focused on eating the requisite three bites of hot dog so she could move on to sweets. He asked about "the gray guys," the Seattle Mariners, who happened to be the visiting team. I told him the Dodgers were going to try to stop the gray guys from getting a run, by catching the balls they hit, and throwing the balls to the players on the bases. Thing 1 had a question: "Is that mean?" I tried to explain that no, trying to keep the other team from scoring isn't mean; it's just how the game is played. But he was dubious.

The Diamondvision (giant screen) was fascinating for awhile too, though they wanted desperately to be on it, and the cameras never quite made it our way. My favorite moment was when a guy proposed to his girl on the screen, clearly pre-arranged with the Dodgers. Someone in his party was ready because after the big kiss, a sign behind them was held up that read, "She said yes." I was gushing. The romance, however, was lost on the kids, who by then were just hot.

It was then I learned my big lesson of the day. Never buy seats for a summer day game that aren't under the overhang. Dad soon offered to bring the kids up into the shade to buy refreshments, and it was at least two innings before they all returned. Not long after, the heat was wilting them again, so this time, I took them for bathroom breaks and lemonade, and in search of a spot with an actual breeze.

Still, this managed to kill enough time that by the time we returned to Late Blooming Dad, it was nearly the seventh inning stretch, and that had been our goal all along: we knew we could get them to stay through then because we promised them everyone would sing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame," a song we taught them early on. The song sung, we headed out, and two very wilted kids suddenly sprang to life, play-acting with their koalas, singing nonsense songs, behaving in a positively giddy manner. As we headed up the stadium steps, the guy who'd sat behind us in his Brooklyn jersey said, "Your children are delightful." And at that moment, I had to agree.

Best of all, though, was how happy it made Late Blooming Dad. It wasn't quite perfect, perhaps: for him, that would have meant a Yankee game. But for me, whose dad grew up rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers, and who visited this very stadium once with that same dad, it was pretty sweet to see my kids introduced to the great American pastime. For a few hours on a summer Sunday afternoon, it wasn't about steroids or player salaries or even the five-dollar hot dogs. It was just about my family watching the ballgame.