parenthood

Conversations That Did And Did Not Happen During My Son’s First Major League Baseball Game

The Pittsburgh Pirates games that I (Ben) attended with my dad back in the 1980s have taken on mythical status in my memory. Every summer, starting when I was around seven, we drove to Pittsburgh on the first weekend of August and caught the Saturday night and Sunday matinee games at Three Rivers Stadium. The Pirates of the mid-to-late 80s (think Tony Pena, Johnny Ray, Bill Madlock and Jose DeLeon, who had a 2-19 record in 1985) were abysmal, a far cry from the “We Are Family” champs of 1979 (and this indelible picture of Dave Parker from 1980) and years away from the Killer B’s (Barry Bonds and Bobby Bonilla, though Jay Bell and Sid Bream were honorary members) and the great 1990-1992 teams. But that didn’t matter. I was going to baseball games with my dad. They remain some of my best memories with him.

On Sunday, I took Sam (a few months shy of five) to his first major league game at Great American Ballpark, where the Reds hosted the Giants. The following are conversations that did and did not happen during our father-son outing. See if you can guess which is which!

—–

BEN: “Son, you may not realize this now, but in thirty years time you may very well look back on this afternoon and think to yourself, ‘That was maybe the best day of my life.'”

SAM: “Father, I have no doubt as to your wisdom or the veracity of that statement. [looks up admiringly] You’re the best dad. Ever.”

—–

BEN: “No, we are not paying six dollars for a hot dog when you didn’t eat the lunch I made you before we left.”

SAM: “But I really want a hot dog!”

BEN: “Oh, ok. One hot dog, please.”

SAM: “And a popcorn!”

BEN [sighs]: “And a popcorn. Also a bottled water please.”

ATTENDANT: “That will be eighty-six dollars.”

—–

BEN: “Son, look at these seats! What a great view! And take a deep breath. Do you smell that? The fresh cut grass. Summer just around the corner. That distinct whiff of ozone right before a thunderstorm that will entail a thirty minute rain delay which sends us running under the bleachers and during which you will not comment repeatedly on how boring this is.”

SAM: “Yes, I can smell that too. You are wise, father.”

—–

BEN: “You see the players in the red uniforms? We’re rooting for them. They’re the Cincinnati Reds.”

SAM: “Who are the other players?”

BEN: “Those are the Giants.”

SAM: “They’re not very big.”

BEN: “No they’re not.”

—–

BEN: “Now, son, in this situation I don’t think Heston will give Billy Hamilton much to hit because first base is open and the pitcher is due up next.”

SAM: “True, father, except that DeSclafani is definitely coming out after this inning since his slider hasn’t been working for him and the Giants have already lit him up for six runs. So I’m sure Bryan Price is going to pinch hit for him.”

BEN: “An astute point, son. I have raised you well.”

—–

BEN: “See those smokestacks out there in center field? When a Reds player hits a home run, they shoot fireworks out of them!”

SAM: “But you said someone just hit a home run. Why weren’t there any fireworks?”

BEN: “Because that was Hunter Pence. He plays for the Giants.”

SAM: “Oh. Why does that man over there keep yelling?”

BEN: “Well, he really wants the Reds to win.”

SAM: “But why does he keep yelling?”

BEN: “I guess he’s just an angry person.”

SAM: “Who’s he yelling at?”

BEN: “Bryan Price. Isn’t this fun? What a great day for a baseball game!”

SAM: “Can I have more popcorn?”

—–

BEN: “Son, rooting for the hometown baseball team is part of what it means to be a Vore man. Your mother may not understand this — she prefers those effete European sports like soccer — and she will probably never take you to a baseball stadium, as she would rather, given the choice, be tormented by an eagle tearing at her liver each and every night whilst she is tied to a rock by adamanite chains than sit through nine innings of a baseball game. Now whether you become a Reds fan or follow in the footsteps of your father and cheer on the Pirates, I leave that up to you. Do you understand what I am saying, son? This is a rite of passage, and you are in that liminal state between youth and adulthood — between being a boy and becoming a man. What is transpiring now, as the Reds come to bat in the bottom of the fourth inning down six runs to five and Yusmeiro Petit faces the top of the Reds lineup, is something that transcends the temporal and reaches for the eternal. Do you grasp this son?”

SAM: “Yes, father. Does this also mean I’m old enough to drink a Miller Lite from that passing vendor?”

BEN: “Not when it’s eight-fifty a pop, absolutely not.”

—–

BEN: “Well, this is fun. Who’s having fun?”

SAM: “I need to go to the bathroom.”

BEN: “You’ve gone twice in the last twenty minutes!”

SAM: “But I need to GO.”

BEN: “Can you hold it until the end of the inning?”

SAM: “Is that when the game’s over?”

BEN: “No, that’s when the fourth inning is over.”

SAM: “I’m ready to go home.”

BEN: “If we hang around you might get to see some fireworks!”

SAM: “Home.”

BEN: “You don’t want to stay a little longer?”

SAM: “Can I have another hot dog?”

BEN: “All right, we’re leaving.”

reds

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