The acclaimed Sports Illustrated writer Joe Posnanski spent a major part of last month going around the United States trying to figure out the everlasting appeal of Baseball in the country.
Posnanski spoke to all sorts, saw a few games and was present at Derek Jeter's 3000th hit and put Baseball's eternal appeal down to a lot of factors. But one above all; fun.
Ambling up to Nationals park last Sunday to watch the home team take on the New York Mets, it was hard to disagree with Joe. My better half had zero experience of baseball but after ten minutes at the ballpark she was proudly displaying her Nationals jersey and feverishly waving her foam finger. It was an witheringly hot day. Our seats were three rows back to the right of the bullpen. A reward for being frugal the night before.
As with any game seen live, it quickly shapes into your own experience. It was signature Sunday so stars like Ryan Zimmerman were happily signing autographs at different sections of the crowd. We chose the cool shade ahead of a scribble pre-game though.
The seats were boiling hot. The free programme I had gotten was rapidly placed between me and the seat to prevent any 3rd degree burns. A father and his three sons took their positions ahead of us and spent the whole game cheering on the Nats, and hoping for a foul ball. Hot dog vendors and Beer men constantly advertised their goods; "Don't be a meany, buy a weiny" "I got beer here, Miller, Bud and er, what is this? Amstiel light!"
The typical baseball experience is said to involve beer but I settled for copious amounts of water to combat the sun.
The first six innings came and went with mistakes, good catches and decent pitching. We were watching two average sides slug it out for mere respectability. The sixth inning came alive with a run for the Nats to take the lead. But that was not the significant event of the sixth inning. The three sons ahead of us had finally persuaded a player to toss them a ball. He nonchalantly looped it towards them and all three stuck out their gloves to catch. The little group around us were watching this and only this and there was an audible gasp as one glove hit another and the ball apologetically limped into the bullpen. Tears were spilled and blame was laid between all three brothers. They will be talking about that one for a while.
The Nats were two up by the time Scott Hairston stepped to the plate. He then did something magnificent. There are many that would dispute that hitting a baseball is the hardest thing in sports, but it is damn hard so when someone launches one into the stands it is a special thing to behold. Hairston crunched one over centre field to leave one in it at the top of the ninth.
By now the band of brothers had left their seats, their relationship indelibly changed and a particularly loud Mets fan had taken them. He insisted on standing despite being in the front row and so was a giant egg shape on my otherwise perfect view. Now I'm not one for complaining about standing. A football match in particular is not an event for sitting but this was different. He irked me even more by shouting at security staff and generally giving off the impression of being well, a Mets fan. The narrative was set. My previous Swiss like neutrality was obliterated. I wanted the Nats to win. I wanted him to slump in the very same seats that a boy's dream of a Nats foul ball was crushed. I wanted justice damn it.
The Scott Hairston stepped up. A home run is no longer a wonderful thing, not when its accompanied by this Mets fan hollering. It sailed away and we were level.Bottom of the ninth.
The Nats though, rallied and managed to put runners on second and third and after Ian Desmond returned a pitch to the Mets struggling Bobby Parnell, the game was up. He couldn't get there. Rick Anikel headed home for the run and the win. The Mets fan slumped in his stolen seat while I stood up and hollered.
We drifted away after. Happy and sun burnt. The better half turned to me at the metro station. "That was fun wasn't it?" It was, it really was.
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