Worth the Price of Admission

Every now and again something occurs that brings to mind a phrase, or cliché that seems to fit the exact scenario that plays out before your own eyes. A sporting event often serves as the backdrop where something so extraordinary or so entertaining happens that you’re inspired to say aloud, “That was worth the price of admission!” Granted, the idiom may be a bit antediluvian, but there is nothing more hip, more up to date, or more precisely descriptive. Such a deed took place last Friday evening at Joe Robbie, Pro Player, Dolphins, Landshark, Sell the Naming Rights to the Highest Bidder Stadium where the Chicago Cubs were playing the Florida Marlins.
Attending a baseball game is one of my very best favorite things to do. I use the derivative of attend because I am not always totally engrossed in what goes on between the foul lines. I was fortunate enough to go to a game at Wrigley Field in Chicago, where, in addition to receiving the good news my sister-in-law was going to have a baby, the Cubs pitcher Jon Lieber, threw a seventy-nine pitch, one hit shut out, with a forty-three minute rain delay thrown in for good measure. The game did not get my undivided attention as it normally does; there was an important conversation that held priority that day. A conversation of equal importance took place between myself and my sister-in-law’s husband several days later during a Chicago White Sox game at Comiskey Park. I don’t even remember the outcome of that game, much less anything significant enough that it should be stored somewhere in the dank, dark recesses of my memory bank.
Sometimes I go to a baseball game just for the company, the game is an afterthought. There was probably a time or two where something great did occur, but I was too drunk to care, but not likely. Even in an altered state of conscientiousness great baseball moments witnessed first hand have a way of permanently etching themselves on one’s psyche. I was quite drunk the night Reggie Jackson hit a home run off Ron Guidry in the rain in his return to Yankee Stadium as a California Angel, and I’ll never forget that night. While Reggie rounded the bases, I stood upon my seat, (not really my seat, I often resorted to graft when it was necessary to improve my vantage point) shouting “Steinbrenner sucks!” defiantly waving my middle finger at the owner’s private suite located not very far away. Soon, fity thousand people were chanting along with me. My reason for this antic; George Steinbrenner did not resign Reggie; rather, he let him go to the Angels via free agency, after all Reggie had done for the Yankees. That bastard! I’d show him! My childish act warranted a mention in Reggie’s autobiography.
I have seen a no-hitter pitched, albeit a little buzzed, and from a seat situated somewhere near the space station Mir. I have seen several World Series games. My seat at the one that took place in Philadelphia between the Phillies and the Orioles was so high up in the stands, that when the fireworks were shot off at the end of the game, they exploded below where I was standing. I didn’t watch much of that game at all. I didn’t give a shit about either team, and the seats sucked. But for the most part, I have intently watched the majority of the over five hundred Major League baseball games I’ve attended. Last Friday night, I’m really glad I did.
My son and I had made plans back in May to go to a Marlins-Phillies game on July 19. A friend of mine is a member of the event staff at Joe Robbie, Pro Player, Dolphins, Landshark, Sell the Naming Rights to the Highest Bidder Stadium. He offered that whenever I was interested in going to a game, I should let him know, he’d get tickets for me. Nice! It also helps that attendance at most Marlins games is roughly the same as the number of people in the express lane at a busy Publix supermarket. My thinking is, just put asses in the seats so it looks better on TV, since they pay the big money for broadcast rights. Hell, that’s the only reason the Marlins still exist at all, the television revenue money from Major League Baseball. So go ahead Marlins front office, get your employees to lure as many people to a game as they can. My son, Bryan Clark, and I, would be the beneficiaries of my friend Morty’s, generosity. Then it fucking rained. We’d have to make it another day before my son went back to Gainesville.
We planned for Saturday, August 15, versus the Colorado Rockies. It wasn’t the hated Phillies, but both the Marlins and the Rockies are fighting for the Wild Card playoff berth in the National League; that should make the game interesting enough. So okay, I’ll just wait until then. I didn’t need to.
Much to my surprise, Cory invited me to accompany him and my friend Gregg, to the Cubs-Marlins game this past Friday. I was stoked. The Cubs are vying for the Central division title, the lingering animosity stemming from the Steve Bartman affair in 2003, this would be a good game I inwardly predicted. I was not disappointed in the slightest.
Gregg was tardy picking us up due to some work related brain damage that necessitated a conference call on a rare day off. That would mean we’d miss the ceremonial multiple first pitches that have become so commonplace. We’d miss some elongated version of the Star Spangled Banner sung by someone of little notoriety. We’d miss the majority of the first inning, a personal pet peeve. I hate showing up after the game has started. The company made this minor annoyance just that, minor.
On the way to our seats we had a running commentary on what a not so “fan friendly” environment Joe Robbie, Pro Player, Dolphins, Landshark, Sell the Naming Rights to the Highest Bidder Stadium is for a baseball game. We got to our section and chose to sit in seats that weren’t as good as the ones we purchased, for a myriad of reasons, none of which I’ll go into here. It would only confirm what you probably suspect about my neurosis. We people watched, sarcastically commenting at every opportunity. We bitched about the goddamn Marlins cheerleaders. Can you imagine, fucking cheerleaders at a baseball game, sacrilege! We bitch about the lack of replays on the World’s Largest Hi-Def monitor. We poked fun at everything and everyone within our field of vision that was suitable for ridicule. For a welcome change, this pursuit was made easier by the “announced” attendance (meaning paid, as opposed to how many really showed up) of over twenty-five thousand patrons. Police converged on a local Publix to quell the riot in the express lane.
Our extracurricular activities aside, the play on the field was pure theater. We may have arrived late, but not late enough to miss the third inning, because what we witnessed was definitely worth the thirty dollar admission price. I bet you were wondering when I was going to get around to this.
In the top half of the third inning, a Chicago Cub belted a long drive to straight-away center field. As taught, Cody Ross, the Marlins centerfielder, turned his back to the plate, and ran as fast as he could. A dull roar began to build from the Cub contingency; a collective anticipatory groan came from the Marlin rooters, both of relatively the same octaves, just different intonation. One side was speculating whether the hit would be a double or a triple, the other side wishing to keep the offensive damage to a minimum. The two similar noises grew louder the further the ball went, and the faster Ross covered ground. Running full speed, to the deepest part of the ballpark, Cody Ross did his best Willie Mays impression. Up, up the nearly white sphere until it reached its apex and began its slowly descending arc. When there was no more room to run, the ball came to rest in Ross’ outstretched glove, to delight of the hometown crowd, and to the disappointment of the Cub faithful. All that was missing was an overconfident base runner who had strayed, and then Ross could have fired a perfect strike to the base the runner had vacated, for a double play.
Miraculous comes to mind when considering the difficulty of the catch. The dull roar turned into a cacophonous vocal explosion. For a split second, I couldn’t utter a sound, dumbfounded by what I’d just seen. I recovered from my stupefied state, and attempted to cheer, applaud, and search for the sufficiently appropriate adjective to describe what went down. Cory, Gregg, and I congratulated each other on the expertise of another. I started to comment that the catch “was worth…and Gregg finished the price of admission.” You know what they say about like minds. I could have left right then, the outcome of the game yet to be determined, my money well spent, but I didn’t. We stayed. It’s a good thing too, because the leaping, backhanded grab of a screaming line drive off the bat of another Cub for the third out was tremendous in owns right, but a little anticlimactic. By the end of nine innings of play we saw splendid pitching by both starters. We saw a couple of home runs, one by a Marlin, and one by a Cub. We saw a couple more defensive gems. We saw the Marlins win by a score of 5-2.
We also saw a rather stout woman in a replica Cub baseball jersey with the name “Moosecow” stitched across the shoulders. Cory and Gregg had already made fun by the time I brought it up. I guess I was too absorbed in watching the game.