Take Me Out to the Ballgame

The ballpark is a wonderful place to hang out on
a warm spring or summer day or evening.

Last Friday, my brother treated me along with his ten-year-old and her friend to an evening at the ballpark. Treated might be too strong a word, and I’ll get back to the reason I say that a little later. First, I have to give credence to the lyric I stole from a popular song to be the title of this post.

As kids, my brother, Neil, and I rarely went to the ballpark. Our parents were not very interested in sports, and if we did get to Milwaukee County Stadium, it was most likely for the annual Police-Fire Department rivalry that was a fundraiser for some worthy cause. The only time we actually went to see the likes of Henry Aaron, Eddie Matthews, Warren Spahn or any of the other Milwaukee Braves, a team that had a winning season each of the 13 years it remained in our hometown, were knothole days. On those days, member of organizations like the boy scouts, girl scouts or church youth groups could sit in the bleachers for ten cents.

Eddie Matthews, Hank Aaron and Frank Torre
made baseball history in Milwaukee.

Everything changed in 1965. The Braves decided in 1964 to move to Atlanta, but Bud Selig, the current commissioner of Major League Baseball who at the time owned a car dealership and a small portion of the team franchise, sued to keep the team in Milwaukee. An injunction was issued for the 1965 season, and attendance that shrank from nearly 25,000 a game in 1953 to under 10,000 a game in 1964 fell to the point where some games there were less than a thousand people to watch them their final year in the North. It was, however, for Neil and I, the season we would always remember. Dad gave his fourteen-year-old a five-dollar bill that I used to buy upper grandstand seats, hot dogs, soft drinks and peanuts for my eleven-year-old brother and me. Since the stands were so empty, we often ended up sitting in seats right behind one of the dugouts by the third or fourth inning. That was a treat.

Going to see the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim play cost around a hundred dollars for the four of us, part of a silent auction package my brother bought at a school fundraiser. So, our attendance was benefitting a worthy organization. It also benefitted the $25 million a year contracts of Albert Pujols, who had the night off due to injuries, and Josh Hamilton, who came to bat in the seventh inning with the Angels down by three runs, runners at the corners and two outs. Despite the urging of Pat Monahan and Train singing their “Calling All Angels,” he popped the ball up ending any chance of his team defeating the worst team in baseball, the Houston Astros.

Mark Trumbo,  Mike Trout, Albert Pujols and Josh Hamilton
are four reasons the Angels should be winning.

After tossing the ball back and forth prior to the Astros coming to bat in the eighth, I noticed Mike Trout, last year’s rookie of the year, and Mark Trumbo, a candidate for the same recognition the previous year, get together in right-center field to chat. I told my brother I figured they were discussing how they could let their new, high-priced teammate know they were disappointed he left them on base. Skeptics would say, once they have the big money they don’t perform anymore. I like to think that like Aaron, Matthews, Ruth, Gehrig, Musial, Koufax and Williams, they play for the love of the game. Fortunately, it didn’t matter to the two ten-year-olds that accompanied my brother and me. They had a great time at the ballpark!