The Seventh Inning Stretch

It's the seventh inning. I just had my seventh beer. Through my
blurred vision I peer out from my leftfield seat. I ponder what it
would feel like to leap over this rail, sprint onto the field, and dive
into home plate.
Surely this capacity crowd of 55,000 New Yorkers wouldn't mind.
Because when you analyze it, people don't attend these events to watch
a group of athletes toss a ball around. Or to watch some well trained
athletes compete. Why do people attend these events? To be entertained.
So the question isn't why. It's why not.
I recall my uncle in Missouri telling me about his experience at such
a venture. He explained in his inebriated voice how the cheers of the
crowd engulfed him with a sense of euphoric vision. As the cheers
increased, he swore he was about to be hit with some great revelation.
Unfortunately the police dragged him off the field before the
discovery, and gave him a beating.
I ponder what mystery did he nearly unlock?
I put down my seventh beer and have doubts. The red railway flashes
like a traffic signal. It's a barrier separating fans from the iconic
few who are allowed onto this quasi-religious landscape. I'm also
reminded of a recent ESPN article saying that laws are being enacted to
include not just a fine, but prison for fans who run on the
field.
Could this be because they are hiding something? I feel obliged to
finish the task my uncle started. Yet the thought of prison frightens
me.
But through my blurred vision I gaze at home plate. It's hypnotic.
Beckoning.
The crowd is singing, "Take me out to the Ballgame." I stare at the
plate. It seems to be whispering, "Take me," "Take me."
In seconds I jump the rail and dash down the crisp green field. Most
observers might believe that the seven beers I consumed this inning are
contributing to my behavior. That would be a baseless accusation. To be
precise, it's the seven beers along with the five shots of vodka I had
in the stadium parking lot.
First the crowd appears stunned. Soon they understand what's occurring
and roar in approval. Growing up as a kid I recalled witnessing this
behavior during games and being appalled. I've grown up since then and
can see how immature my thoughts were.
Exhilaration engulfs me, along with a sense of intrusion as I tread
onto this ground which has been consigned to a privileged minority. The
hot night air lifts my blond hair as my 185 pound frame races towards
the hallowed target. Beneath my feet I feel the pristine green grass
cut to uniform specifications, with the precision of a master
hairstylist.
Into the infield I dash like a common street urchin barging into the
heart of Buckingham
Palace. (Torn jeans and all. I should've rented a tuxedo for this
occasion.) The aligned bases glaring like white diamonds awe my senses.
I have an up close view of a realm constructed for god-like people
idolized since childhood.
With my pulse ricocheting off the scale, my objective appears in
range. As I dive into home plate with a reddish-brown cloud of dust I
can't help but recall my uncle in Missouri telling me the story about
how he tried the same thing during that rainy game in St. Louis, with
the help of a lot more alcohol I'm proud to say.
I also fondly remember his story about how his grandfather interrupted
the first ever World Series by barreling into the catcher at home
plate, giving him a minor concussion in the process. Ever since then
they have been required to wear masks and chest protectors. And I'm not
going to even mention what his great-grandfather did to make the league
require players to wear cups.
I dust myself off before the cheering crowd. As I hear the cheers of
the audience increase, I start to notice a change. The landscape looks
less refined. Apparently my uncle was right all along. I feel ashamed
to admit it, but I assumed he just had too much to drink that
day.
My feelings of exhilaration dissipate as I see my worst nightmare, New
York City Police officers, advancing from dark partitioned concrete.
Objective: to crush my joyful intrusion onto this Athletic Eden. I
think if I just surrendered now I could declare a moral victory. I
clearly outdid my uncle. But no, I am on a mission. I break right
avoiding my captors, sprinting to centerfield, leaving the garbled
sounds of cursing law enforcement echoing through the night air.
There are no reins as I accelerate on this sacred field. Seconds
later, I perform another head first dive in dead center. For a while I
decide to lay on my stomach, limbs outstretched. The cheers of the
crowd now near deafening decibels. The vibrating noise echoes in my
skull, the bases and pitcher's mound appear more oblique. I lift myself
up and a dozen officers close in from every angle. All escape routes
are cut off. I am being enveloped.
All rationality tells me to surrender. But I see the blue-collar fans
in the audience, I imagine how hard they worked to enjoy a night of
entertainment. And, more important, I am so close to unlocking this
mystery. If I could just make this audience cheer a little louder. I
hear the slurred voice of my uncle beckoning me onward, like a Homeric
Greek Siren.
They're now within five yards, I notice a clump of dry dirt in my left
pocket, an alluvial deposit from my legendary slide into home. Slowly,
I move my hand down. One finger at a time disappears into my pocket. As
they approach I turn, and with a coiled motion, I throw a lateral
grapeshot of refined earth into stunned faces.
Amid a chorus of gags and coughs through flaring nostrils, I break the
human envelopment. Staggering forward in my dirt stained t-shirt, I
prepare for a stunt that will bring these spectators to their feet, and
unlock this enigma.
With my heart pounding like a jackhammer, I leap onto my hands, and do
three
awkward cartwheels. I finish with a pathetic attempt at a back-flip.
Upon landing, my knees buckle, soon I'm flat on my back.
Gazing towards the heavens, I hear the crowd erupt in a thunderous
ovation. I see a blinding flash. Maybe it's the stadium lights, but I
am now struck by a revelation more profound than on the road to
Damascus. Stunning in its logic.
I hear the crowd cheering louder than they have all season. Here I am,
a common person who never played in a Major League game. Yet I was able
to entertain these fans better than all these professionals.
I exposed their fraud in front of 55,000 duped fans. These aren't
special people, but for over a century we've idolized these "immortals"
by paying a portion of our salaries in a ritualistic tribute to sit in
this shrine just to watch them make physical motions. I exposed this
charade with a couple slides and a back-flip.
After this revelation, I look at the grassy field. It no longer
appears pristine, it's no better than the lawn in my backyard after I
run my lawn mower across it. (Of course if I mowed my lawn more than
once a year I would've noticed this a lot sooner.) Looking infield, I
see the once ornate bases. They now look like someone aligned some
pizza boxes into a quartet, the pitchers mound reminds me of an obtuse
anthill I once saw in Kentucky.
Most pathetic of all are the athletes in the dugout. Standing exposed
. They're laughing their heads off, but exposed nonetheless.
Soon their hypnotic sway over our society will end. Children will no
longer view them as role models. In fact I would make a better role
model, I've never been indicted for murder, suspended for choking my
coach, or fined for using obscene language, like many athletes. My only
weakness is that I might have a slight tendency to over-drink.
Picking myself up a jolting thought paralyzes me. Many great leaders
have attempted to expose the conspiracies of powerful establishments.
Most are silenced through tragic means, like assassination,
imprisonment, or in the case of my uncle, probation along with
mandatory attendance at an alcohol clinic. I must escape to herald this
new ideology!
Too late! Before I'm upright a dozen police grab me. They rush my
stumbling frame towards an exit tunnel. The crowd is furious. They
begin to chant, "let him go," "let him go," "let him go."
Despite my capture these guardians can't undo my accomplishments,
which will spread across country like a tidal wave.
I notice many people in the crowd have figured out they've been duped
all these years. I see several parents exiting with their kids, they
glare at me with disgusted looks. If I could read their minds I'm sure
I'm being thanked for exposing this ruse.
Before I'm shoved into the tunnel, I see a contingent of spectators
running towards me in the stands. Gold waves of liquid cascade from
circular plastic as they yell encouragements. Nothing can discourage
them as they knock over popcorn and peanut vendors, sending concessions
exploding like cluster bombs. Before I disappear they wave, and I think
I just witnessed the extreme right wing of my movement beginning
to
form.
The initial euphoria of being an idol fades, as for the next twenty
minutes I wilt from being interrogated under a hot lamp. I am isolated
in a thick concrete bunker, away from the joyful cheers of my
fans.
I feel sick, my eyes start blinking, and my head twitches. At first I
think it's the seven beers along with the five shots of vodka I had,
but then I dismiss that theory. Instead I believe it's the seven beers,
the five shots of vodka, combined with the half bottle of Jack Daniel's
Whiskey I had at home this morning.
There is some good news. It seems one of the officers is starting to
feel more compassionate towards me. Apparently he's trying to give me
the New York Police Departments interpretation of the Heimlich
maneuver, which is a couple of hard knees to my ribcage. Writhing in
agony I threaten to report him to the mayor if he doesn't use a less
painful method. Of course I lose all faith in humanity when my vision
clears and I notice that this is the mayor of the city.
My last flicker of hope fades, I'm succumbing to their inquisition. I
am about to give in, and reveal my missions objective to curtail their
hold on the people of this city.
But I recall my uncle's stories of our relatives field crashing
exploits. One of them, in particular, stands above the rest. It gives
me the inspiration to fight on.
It's a tale passed down through the centuries about an intoxicated
Roman ancestor who charged out onto the field during a gladiatorial
contest at the Colosseum. The relative was immediately devoured by a
horde of ferocious lions. Of course the bloodthirsty audience felt it
was the most thrilling event of the day, even for a matinee, and gave
him a ten minute standing ovation.
In the long term, the lions didn't fare well either. Half died of
alcohol poisoning after ingesting the saturated body of our ancestor.
The ones that did survive had to have their stomachs pumped, and later
became alcoholics.
My uncle insists this is the main reason Christianity survived in
Western Society since most of the Christians that were thrown to the
lions after that time were able to maneuver away from their drunk,
uncoordinated attackers and escape through the tunnels where they were
released.
In fact, for the past several years my uncle has been lobbying the
Vatican to bestow upon this ancestor the status of martyrdom under the
name Saint 90 proof. Next week he plans to fly to Rome for the fifth
time to push this request through.
This uplifting story endows me with resolve to not speak out. (Well,
that and the fact that the mayor has his forearm across my throat.)
Unfortunately, refusing to capitulate seals my fate. The article on
ESPN proves correct, I am led away in handcuffs, down a cold runway to
disgrace.
My head lowers. I stagger with dejection, I see no light where I'm
headed. Darkness hovers over white concrete, shadowing a bleak future,
once so promising. (I thought they would at least have the decency to
refund the five dollars I paid for my parking ticket.)
What transpires in the next seconds can be called a miracle. From
behind a concrete column I see the intoxicated fans I encountered
before I entered the tunnel. My
extremist right wing faction has organized a rescue mission!
The dozen crusaders leap on the three police officers, removing a set
of keys, and ending my Promethean torment by unlocking my shackles.
They shove me towards the exit tunnel yelling, "Run!" I run, but my
body makes it difficult. My sweat drenched clothes gravitate downward.
My lungs stretched to capacity are near their elastic limits.
Soon I see the light at the exit. Like an oil-less tin-man I drag my
frame across the parking lot. I gasp for air. I'd pay a king's ransom
for an oxygen mask, or a liver transplant.
As I fall into my car, I can't help but think of those brave apostles
who saved me. No doubt they will be overpowered by the re-enforcements
I saw approaching. And likely share a fate meant for myself.
After I drive onto the freeway, I call my uncle on my cell-phone to
make sure to lobby for some kind of martyr status for my brave
followers beside our ancestor when he flies to Rome next week. I just
hope this time the Italian authorities will allow him off the
plane.
As for myself I have greater responsibilities. I need to plan my next
engagement. But where? I do recall purchasing tickets to the NBA
Playoffs a week ago. And the last time I was at Madison Square Garden
that parquet floor looked pretty inviting.
By the way the Yankees won the game 7-3.