Nonfiction: I’m not a nationalist, but I’ll accept the label of patriot. I get teary as somebody (not me) hits the high note in the Star Spangled Banner. During our small-town parade when the fire truck comes by. When Amanda Gorman’s words sing out ‘Being American is more than a pride we inherit, it’s the past we step into, and how we repair it.’ One grandfather a fireman, the other a pilot; father a soldier, both brothers too. Lived all over the country, growing secondary roots far beyond the southern California sunshine that is my birthright. American as apple pie.
So it’s obviously a problem that I’m not a baseball fan.
Wow, I’m nervous even typing those words, like the ump will lean over my shoulder any minute and sneer ‘you’re ouuuuut!’, and they’ll revoke my passport.
In my defense, it was baseball that broke up with me, not the other way around. I sat through my share of Little League and high school games, where the attraction was middle-school gossip and boys in tight pants, respectively. My college wasn’t much for fielding serious sports teams (although we made serious investments in Ultimate Frisbee, and Greg Popovich turned around our basketball program during the six years he coached for us before he went to the big leagues, so that ain’t nothin’) but I recall an occasional seventh-inning-stretch in the sun. With beer.
But then I moved to Boston, and along with lobster and the bone-cracking chill of wet winter mornings, I was introduced to the Red Sox. Now this is neither the time nor the place for discourse on history or legendary players or feuds with teams from That Other City—suffice it to say Sox fans possess certain characteristics, amongst which is a superior sort of pity for newcomers, and a willingness to instruct us on the finer points of the sport. Which is how I came to be glued to the TV when Billy Buckner let that damn ball roll between his legs in the tenth inning of Game 6 against the Mets. And boom! just like that, the flame of our fledgling attraction was snuffed out.
Fifteen years later, baseball made a play to rekindle the affair, like a high school sweetie at a reunion where your nametags have to carry your yearbook picture as well as your name, just so everyone is equally uncomfortable. The setting for this attempt at détente was a late August minor league game in Durham. My younger brother was getting married, and their version of a rehearsal dinner was a block of first base seats in the North Carolina sunshine at the jewel of a park where the Bulls play.
It was everything a baseball game should be: decent plays, a goofy mascot, the crowd singing and spelling out Y-M-C-A at the stretch. One of the home team even hit a dinger, so the giant wooden bull looming over the left field wall got busy: eyes lightin’ up red, tail waggin’, puffs of smoke spewin’ from his nostrils. The game was heading into the bottom of the eighth when my dad signaled that it was my turn to make the trek out to the concession stand and buy a round of beer, so off I go. A medium-long line, and this is before smartphones so the only entertainment available while waiting was people-watching. Slim pickings, so I was pleased when it was my turn to order the six large drafts required, but my smile turned upside down when the skinny guy behind the counter stopped in mid-pour and surprised himself with a sudden insight. “Sorry, I need to check your ID. You know—to see if you’re old enough ….”
Now I was 34 about to turn 35, and while I’ve always carried my age well, there was absolutely no way a rational adult would think I was underage. My flattered laughter soured quick enough when I saw this compliment was doing double duty as an insult, since he insisted that I did indeed need to produce identification, which of course was safely stashed back at my seat.
“That damn kid—and he definitely was a youngster, I’m surprised he’s even old enough to sell beer legally—he carded me!” I harrumphed as I snaked my way back to my seat, dug my purse out from underneath, fished out my wallet, and wiggled back to the aisle.
My Dad had moved from his end seat to let me pass, but as I brushed by to head up the stairs, he touched my arm, and said, with a straight face but a glint in his eye:
“Well, Laura Belle….” he drawled, “I sure hope you proposed to the man.”
Laura Bailey writes creative nonfiction, dabbles in flash fiction, and is at work on a novel that grew out of a short story she wrote during a Hoffman Center writing workshop. Laura believes that Manzanita is a magical place for writers, and enjoys volunteering for the Hoffman Center programs to help make that magic accessible for everyone in our community.
