Deer In Headlines
By Gery L. Deer
My family never went to baseball games when I was growing up, and I’ve never really been a sports fan. But since the Cincinnati Reds farm team came to Dayton in 2000, I’ve always enjoyed a warm summer evening at a Dayton Dragons game, when, for a few hours, the world just seems to get a little bit lighter.
At an evening game, there is that moment when the sun begins to sink noticeably low on the horizon, the stadium lights slowly flicker to life, and the sky turns from blue to purple. The air begins to cool, and Day Air Ballpark feels less like a building and more like a living thing.
A baseball park has a heartbeat, a pulse made up of thousands of conversations, vendors calling, children laughing, gloves popping, and the grounds crew making everything look impossibly tidy. Fans drift through the gates wearing some measure of Dragons spirit, from a ball cap to a full jersey with a player’s name across the back.
Some arrive carrying gloves, hoping for a foul ball. Others carry children, souvenirs, and enough snacks to survive into the next day. Everybody seems to know the ritual. Find your seats. Easy, since there are no bad ones. Then you check the scoreboard and settle in. It doesn’t take long before the smell of the hot dogs and pizza call to you like a siren song, especially if you skipped lunch just to make room for it all.
Speaking of food, there’s no shortage of choices. There are burgers, nachos, ice cream, specialty sandwiches, candy, popcorn, beer, soft drinks and probably something involving barbecue sauce that I’ve overlooked. Me, I’m a little old-school. A baseball traditionalist. My game foods are, in this order, a hot dog with mustard, a Dr. Pepper, a bag of peanuts, and pack of Cracker Jack. By the way, what happened to the prizes? We need to talk about that some other time.
Actually, the concession stand itself is part of the whole experience. You stand in line, trying to decide what you want. You hear the crowd react to some amazing play you missed, and inevitably run into somebody you haven’t seen in years. Suddenly, you are catching up between orders of nachos.
If you’re the type who’s never met a stranger, there are plenty of folks there just like you. You can tell a tired tale of the one that got away to a whole new audience or bond with the person beside you over a shared dislike of the umpire’s last call. For nine innings, more than a thousand people have something in common. Nobody cares what you do for a living or who you voted for.
In my opinion, every game is a unique experience. Double plays, a T-shirt fired from a cannon that lands in someone’s hot dog, I mean, what are the odds? And, unbelievably, people actually talk to one another. Other than the odd selfie, surprisingly few are staring at their phones. That alone may qualify as a minor miracle.
As darkness settles over the ballpark, the moon peeks through the summer sky above downtown. Then, suddenly – Crack! The bat connects. It is going, going, gone. The ball sails over the fence as the outfield defense looks on. The air horns sound. Fans roar. The runner waves as he casually rounds the bases, while players with names like Friend, Vu, Faile, Montero and Confidan become part of our summer vocabulary.
Between plays, the entertainment crew, the Green Team, keeps everyone smiling with appearances by team mascots Heater, Gem, and Blaze, and interactive contests. Fans might throw water balloons or race around the bases wearing colorful inner tubes to prove, without a doubt, that dignity is optional when a free T-shirt is on the line. Soon, everyone is standing for the seventh inning stretch and a rousing chorus of, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
No matter who wins at a Dragons game, every fan from 9 to 99 gets a gift: a couple of hours when the world seems lighter. It’s familiar, unhurried and somehow exactly where you need to be, even if it’s only for one summer evening.
The Jamestown Comet 