30 Before 30: Take dad out to the ball game

I had never been hugely into baseball. I went to college in Boston, and the yearly feud between the Sox and Yankees wasn’t something you could easily avoid (especially in 2004—suck it, Yanks), but I would turn games on purely for background noise.

Occasionally my father and I would talk Tigers; my grandmother would regale me with tales of Al Kaline while I sat on her brown shag carpet—but mostly what I knew of them is that they lost. A lot. And to watch them was to know that they would lose, and that we could talk about it and place blame later, over beers.

Expectations of the team notwithstanding, this seemed like the perfect activity for our annual Father’s Day outing. I had never been to a live ball game, and the promise of soft pretzels and drinks in the sunshine with my dad sounded like a pretty fair way to spend an afternoon. Fifty bucks, six Smallwoods and two cars later, we headed for the White Sox game at Comerica Park.

Seriously, who needs this?

Something that immediately struck me at the pavilion: This place is a franchise. It’s like walking into a giant McDonald's, or Cedar Point. It’s similarly easy to drop cash, because the whole place is like a cartoon—you’re blinded by the posters and smells and primary colors and suddenly $7 slices of pizza are totally reasonable. After a quick stop in the gift shop, or team store, or whatever you call someplace that sells $30 distressed cotton tees with Tiger emblems, we loaded up on snacks and made our way to our seats.

A big note for next time: Find seats higher up. The 3rd baseline gave us a great view, but as my left-shoulder-only sunburn would reveal, an awning would more than make up for the location.

After the obligatory anthem and picture taking it was… a ball game. There was pitching and shouting and much speculation about team salaries. Somewhere after the third inning, after Chicago scored eight runs in under 10 minutes, it was time for some $7 beers. My father sat next to me as we got slowly toasted and talked stats and trades—as I am also the only one of his children who drinks beer, I suppose we bonded as men do.

At this point—10 runs down and three beers in—the game was pretty immaterial. I attempted sobering up with the purchase of a soft pretzel, only to be told that they had completely sold out. Another note: Buy pretzel early. And while I’m at it: Have pre-game drinks. A cocktail before leaving the house saves you $14 at the game (provided you’re not the one driving, of course).

Despite the heinous loss, I’d definitely go back for another game—later in the season, and knowing what I know now—and bring my dad for another chat on Magglio over a $7 beer.

Happy Father's Day

On a separate note, I knocked another item off the 30 List recently—as of now, I am a writer. When do you go from waiter to actor, from visionary to artist? When you get a check in the mail. This is my job. And hoo boy, I am so happy I could pass out, spasm, and swallow my own tongue.

Sarah Smallwood is a third of the way through 30, and needs to step it up! She keeps a daily blog at The Other Shoe and hosts a podcast at Stuff with Things. She can be reached at heybeedoo at gmail dot com.