Take me out to the ball game

Proudly displaying her foul ball

Friday night, we went to see the Owls play against the Helena Brewers. The Owlz are dominating the south division of the Pioneer league, so we thought we should show up and root them on. (We also knew a few of the boys who were putting on the flag ceremony, but let's just pretend that we went because we're huge Owlz fans.)


On our way to the park, we picked up a Slurpee at 7-11. There was the usual promotion that comes every year on 7/11, so most of the flavors were out, but I was able to get a pina colada to share on the drive down to Orem. (I paid for one of the regular size, and the cashier had a worried look on his face as I approached until I told him I was planning to pay for it, promotion notwithstanding.)

We sat behind the Brewers' dugout on the third base line, but we saw nary a foul ball through 3 1/2 exciting innings. Bed time was approaching, so we decided to be content and call it a night (the score was 6-4 with the home team leading). Just after we started walking toward the exit, but before we got out the gate, someone hit home run. Just my luck to miss it by less than a minute, but speaking of luck, the next batter hit a foul ball on the first base side which landed just outside the exit as we were walking out, so we got a souvenir after all. Well worth the trip, and we were only out $5 for parking and $3 for some nachos.

Bed time went well that night.

I wasn't a baseball fan until we moved back to California, and spent a significant amount of time with our neighbors, the Watsons. They were huge Giants fans, and we spent the next few years playing with tennis balls in the Watsons' front yard. Many tennis balls were lost over the roof of the two neighbors across the street and into the Juniper bushes that dominated the front yard of the third neighbor across and further down. Most of the time it was just a pitcher and a batter or two with someone out to collect the balls that were hit, with a lot of "ghost runners" and "ghost fielders" on the bases. Don't ask me how we decided objectively which plays were hits, runs, and outs, but we seemed to do okay without too many arguments.

Eventually we grew out of playing with tennis balls in the front yard and we would take excursions to all of the local schools and play on their fields, usually a pitcher, a catcher, an outfielder and a batter. Some times we had enough for an infielder or two, so we'd actually try to go for a play at first after a hit, but usually it was just rotating through the group and letting everyone have an at bat. Score keeping had long since been abandoned as unnecessary to the fun.

Our favorite venue was Northwood Park elementary school, because on the way home we would would pass a 7-11 and we could stop for Slurpees with whatever pocket change we managed to scrounge together before we left. Once we got caught in the rain and tried to take cover in the covered slide on the playground in the adjacent park. That must have been a funny sight to someone looking in from the outside.

Of course we also went to a few Giants games here and there as well (back when they played at Candlestick Park). There's nothing like seeing a baseball game in person. Watching on TV will never convey the experience of being there in the park.

My brother's family is moving to the Phoenix area, so maybe I'll see another Major league game again soon, if I crash with him during spring training. Friday night was a great night. It was a different group of friends, and a very different setting, but it evoked a lot of great memories of my growing years.