Ball Fried

My athletic ability is akin to my math acuity. I have neither. Admiring those with either or both skills is a talent I do possess. Long ago when I was a student, physical education was a required course. Girls weren't expected to do much, however, and were actually limited to specific sports. No Little League teams vied for female members. Pop Warner shunned my gender and probably still retains that stance.

Each spring for a couple of years, I reluctantly played softball as part of my P.E. rotation. For all the times I came up to bat during those dreaded days, I actually hit the ball once. I was hopeless, the girl chosen last for every team. Being so physically inept really didn't bother me. I was much more interested in books than scores.

At our house, Yankees rule. The team, that is. In his youth, Henry saw the fabled team play many times. His younger years coincided with the best days of Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris and others of similar stature. Once, he skipped school at Yorktown Heights High and went with a friend to Yankee Stadium on the first day that tickets were available for purchase. These somewhat naive teen-agers thought by getting to the box office so promptly they'd be able to buy excellent seats. Not so. This thwarted outing did nothing to diminish Henry's devotion to 'his' team.

I've become a Yankees fan by proxy. As a many generation Southerner, I see nothing quixotic about this affection. After all, I married a Yankee. Very happily.

Together we've watched the Yankees play in various ballparks around the country. Whether in the frigid enclosed Tampa Bay Rays' stadium or at the Seattle Mariners' usually super cool outdoor field, we've followed our team faithfully.

True fans visit the home turf and we've sat in the old Yankees' stadium as well as the new concrete prison like enclosure. I admit there's something magical about those spaces. We've even toured the now demolished stadium and sat in the storied dugout, imagining the legendary bodies that had crowded those benches in the past.

Twice we've driven to Anaheim to watch the Yankees play the Angels. Generally the stands are awash with bright red, an homage to the local team. This past Sunday, we noticed nearly as many people in the traditional navy hue so familiar to Yankees fans.

Traveling from the desert in June is generally a delight. Almost anywhere is cooler. Checking weather predictions, I smiled at the projected numbers. Sitting outside all afternoon in 70 degree weather would surely be a respite from our much warmer days.

Was I wrong!!! Though the official temperature was a balmy 77, I can attest that inside the concrete oven of a stadium, it was at least 15 degrees warmer. Thankfully, Henry had his '#1 Dad' baseball cap. It saved his scalp. He also chose to wear a light cotton jacket throughout the game, despite the discomfort. Thus, he saved his arms from toasting.

I, believing that suncreen could save me, failed to bring a hat to the game. Not a good decision. My own scalp remains crimson three days later and is a bit tender when touched. I have an unsightly 'V' of redness on my chest. Poor choice of tee shirt and inadequate sunscreen. It could have been much worse. Having dwelled in two different desert locations since the mid '60's, I should know better.

Angels Stadium is very near Disneyland. The parking lot is vast but contains no helpful signs which could assist fans in retrieving their vehicles. Perhaps somebody should invent an app which you touch when you leave your car in a lot and touch again when you want to find it. The app would immediately guide you to the proper parking space. Sort of a parking lot GPS. I suppose such an app already exists or is in the development stage or might be impractical. Surely we can't be the only people who would benefit from such a device.

We arrive early and join a long line of fans awaiting the opening of the stadium. Almost immediately, we notice that there are people holding threatening religious signs. The kind that indicate dire consequences for non-believers. Walking amongst the crowd are more of the faithful, dressed entirely in white. They carry pamphlets extolling their beliefs and buckets for donations. Nearby a child, definitely not more than 10 years old, speaks in a small voice. She recites Bible verses and warns all of us. I can't help but wonder how long it has taken her to learn these words. I am confident that her childhood has been hijacked and her life molded in ways that cannot and will not be altered.

A city fire truck approaches and parks near the crowd. A group of fit firemen alight. They, too, are soliciting donations. The cause is Muscular Dystrophy. Money can be deposited in tall boots which the firemen carry.

The two groups appear to ignore each other. Primarily,the waiting fans do the same. It's a mixed group, ethnically speaking. All around us, Spanish flows as families eagerly await a day with their heroes. One man walks by wearing an 'Indian power' shirt. There's a homogeneity that's recognizable to anyone who has lived in California for very long. We are people from everywhere. Accents abound with displaced New Yorkers conversing excitedly about games they've seen in the Bronx.

Our seats are spectacular. We're two rows behind the Yankees dugout. The players pass in front of us so closely that we can see into their eyes. Do I detect fatigue? A night game followed by a day game plus the heat. I am tired and I'm just sitting.

In a somewhat strange coincidence, we're mostly surrounded by Yankees' fans. Team jerseys adorn fans of all ages. Caps cover heads big and small, both genders. I've left Henry's Yankees shirts at home. He's an incognito fan. I'm more effusive with my clapping or wincing when things go awry for the team. He's sedate, cerebral, always studying the action on the field.

With our generous access, photos are much more focused. We seek our favorites--Jeter, Rodriguez, Granderson, Teixeira. The latter player has a grand day with two home runs. An Angels fan sitting behind us provides an almost sports commentator-like description of the game. His knowledge of teams and talent is impressive. He knows who was on which team in the past, why that player left for another town, what ailments plague certain ones and every iteration of the ball park since the 1970's. From him, I hear that Teixeira makes $20 million a year. I have to think about that. He isn't even the highest paid player on the Yankees team. I guess when your paycheck is so astronomical, the numbers become meaningless. Getting two home runs in a game is what matters.



Before the game begins, we search for food. I'm particular about my ball park dining. I do enjoy hot dogs and much prefer those available at New York stadiums. Angels Stadium does not excel in culinary choices. Henry is content with a burger from Carl's Jr. I settle for a Der Wienerschnitzel hot dog. It is acceptable, average. We're both happy to have water to sip as the heat magnifies. With the sun directly over our heads, we're profoundly grateful for the soft breezes.

Three seats remain empty just to the right of us. About half way through the game, a trio of 20-something seat surfers appear and claim the vacancies. No doubt their real tickets are elsewhere. They loaded with beer and one of them is extra loud. He needs no magnification at all and I can almost hear the wincing around me as his voice permeates the heat waves. He's an Angels fan as are his buddies. He's also shirtless. Maybe a bit mindless too. He either has the ability to withstand harmful ultraviolet light or Monday morning he was hurting badly from burns.


Some tense moments occur as the innings fade and the score tightens. Both teams replace their pitchers. Joba Chamberlain will save the day. He looks like he lumbers a lot and if he were seen outside the park, it might be difficult to believe that he is a major league pitcher. Not a starter as he was once touted, but a player nonetheless.


By the eighth inning, a Yankees win seems assured. We're parched, wizened by the exposure. Henry suggests South Coast Plaza. Air conditioning and shopping. My favorite combination. The perfect mall is conveniently near by. We turn away from the Yankees this sunny afternoon. The team may be part of our northwest itinerary in September. Jackets will be required in Seattle and with a night game, we're apt to think we are freezing not frying.