Ball Park Dogs

I’m on my way to becoming a baseball fan (collective gasp). There are two primary factors involved in this sudden and unforeseen turn of events.

The first reason is this little thing called “Fantasy Baseball”, you may have heard of it before. A few people are playing it now. And if fantasy sports have taught us anything, it’s that they can turn even the most indifferent sports fan into an interested onlooker (at the very least). And a mere week and a half into my first Fantasy Baseball season, I’m already liking baseball more and more. And even if I still don’t really enjoy it all that much, I have to have SOMETHING to fill the void between the end of March Madness and the start of the College and NFL Football seasons (and to break up the monotonous eternity that becomes the NBA Playoffs).

The second reason is inspired by my experience the other night. I had the opportunity to attend a Double-A Minor League game. Chattanooga’s very own Lookouts, versus the Mudcats from… some other city not big enough to have an MLB or even a Triple-A team… Anyways, it was the first game I had been to in a while, and it was fun.




I should note that the quality of my experience was much aided by the fact that my tickets were A) Free, and B) for a Box-suite. These tickets were provided, most graciously, by our team Doc. And so, never being the group to turn down anything free, our little group of Athletic Training students headed to the park. And let’s be honest, there’s always something especially “gratis-fying” about enjoying entertainment or fine dining on someone else’s tab (although I must admit I’ve been on the other end of this coin one too many times). When it’s Box-seats, it’s taken to a whole ‘nother level. Personal service, free chips and salsa, and an air-conditioned room with bar stools and tables sitting next to a column of sliding doors. Nothing quite like sitting in the open air with an air-conditioned room at your back (only in America my friends).

There are just a few things about going to the Park that can’t be fully explained, but since I’m writing this article, I guess I’ll have to try.

First off, you’ve got the foul balls. In his book, ‘Now I Can Die in Peace’, Bill Simmons of ESPN’s Page 2 has a segment where he talks about his experiences with foul balls. His lack of luck in ever catching one, certain sections of Fenway that are ideal for catching fly balls, etc. I understood what he was talking about it, but now I KNOW what he means.

As soon as a ball starts flying foul, there is a kid-like desire awoken inside of anyone with a pulse that makes us all want to be the one to catch it. But with our suite being behind and to the right of home plate, and under the overhanging roof, I thought our chances were slim-to-none of seeing a foul ball. In fact, I explained to my boy JoNo that the angle between the roof and the net shielding the crowd made the chances almost incalculable small. “We’re not getting any foul balls up here (in our sweet-suite seats)”, I confidently explained.

Seconds later, a foul ball pops into the stands 10 fee to our left, at the same level as our seats. Luck.

I raise my eyebrows and pretend it never happened.

Two innings later the unthinkable happens. A ball comes slicing off a home-team bat and spins just over the netting and under the roofing directly for our suite. By the time we see it coming it’s too late. Disaster strikes! One of our friends, Erin, gets hit smack dab in the head by the foul ball. Thankfully it’s a glancing blow that is mostly absorbed by here sun-glasses. Irony.

Now the Dictionary in my Sweet-Mac defines irony as: ‘a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result’. Well, I define irony as: ‘A fly ball hitting a friend of mine in the head minutes after I explain how impossible the angle would have to be, and when the group of people in attendance happens to consist of 15 Athletic Training students and one Certified Athletic Trainer.’

Moments later a stadium worker comes up to make sure she’s okay, at this point we’ve given here five Cranial Nerve tests and 3 complete concussion evaluations, but thanks for asking…

There’s another thing about being at the park that makes it memorable, beyond the actual events of the game. There’s the camaraderie, and the enjoyment of recently created inside jokes (which may or may not be funny).

Like when the Lookouts hit a long, hard ball directly to center. The ball hits 2/3 of the way up the green wall at center field that inexplicably sits 8 Feet higher than the rest of the wall, and Rickie and I simultaneously exclaim, “Stopped by the Green-Monster!”

“The Green Monster” we echo ourselves… “Anywhere but Fenwa…. Er… BELL SOUTH PARK!” I add as we crack up at ourselves!


And then there’s always the personal attack on players. This is especially fun at a Minor-League game because no one knows any of the players before you get to the park. So all of your jokes are guaranteed to be original (even if they don’t even approach being truly funny) to the audience present.

“Votto, your BOY!” I joke with JoNo as the first batter comes to the plate (and yes, I got this habit from you, Lewis).

“What, just because his name ends in vowel, he’s my boy?!” says JoNo defensively, thinking I was making a joke about his Italian heritage, when in reality I just felt like saying something… (it should be noted that later Gary Patchett would become my boy because it sounded like a nice, white-christian name).

But my personal favorite player had to be Alex Sanchez (you know where this is going). Not afraid to approach the racial line, I immediately start to muse about the possibility of his nickname being Alex “Dirty” Sanchez. This of course evolves into “Deer-tay” (as in Joe Deer-tay) and the Legend is born. Every time we go to a Lookouts game this summer (and hopefully we’ll get a few more games in the box seats!), we’ll remember our boy Alex “Deer-tay” Sanchez. That’s just another day at the park for you.

And so what I have learned from this experience, which has produced an almost three-page article for this fine sports-forum? Sometimes you had to be there. And in baseball’s case, you USUALLY had to be there. But when you give it the opportunity (or when the opportunity is handed to you), it’s an experience worth having. So beg, burrow, buy or schmooze a ticket. Grab yourself a dog and even (gasp!) a beer, and take yourself out to the ball game…