Ten days before Wrigley, I had been part of a group of guys who had splurged on Crown Club tickets in Kansas City.  The ticket gives you access to the rows directly behind home plate.  It also gives you access to an all you can eat and drink buffet in Kauffman’s basement.  We tried to make sure they lost money.

As we got ready to head outside, one of our group didn’t get up. So him and I remained, across from each other.

“You know I always thought if I had a son, I’d like to treat him to something like this.  I wouldn’t want to spoil him, but when I was a kid we always sat up in the cheap seats.  My folk’s busted their ass.  I’m just in a position where I could do better.  It’d be fun, you know, to share a mutual appreciation with your kid.”

Like a lot of men, we were talking baseball…baseball and other things.  Unlike most, we understood each other.

When I grabbed my seat, I could look into the dugout of the visiting White Sox.  They had all headed in, but bullpen catcher Mark Salas remained.  He stood at the top of the steps that headed down into the stadium and looked above at the kids vying for a ball from batting practice.  A muscle-bound and over-tanned dad in a tank top was pointing to his daughter, a shy girl of about 10.

“I thought I already gave you one, Miss,” said Salas.  The girl put her head down, but her father kept pointing.  Finally Salas pointed too, so there was no mistake who the ball was intended for, tossed the last one up to her, and disappeared into Kauffman.

The rest of the kids left, but the girl, a boy I assume was her older brother, and her dad gathered together in a row of seats just over the rail behind us.  The boy had on a backpack, and slipping it gave some indication of just how heavy it was.  His father unzipped it and pulled out an oversized Ziploc bag 2/3rds full of baseballs.

The girl placed hers into the bag and looked down as her father fished another out of the pocket of his running pants.  He returned the bag to the backpack, put the backpack on his son’s shoulders, and up the stairs they went:  the shy girl, the encumbered boy, and their orange meathead of an old man.

If they don’t appreciate it, I suppose you can always force them to do it anyway.  We can tell ourselves its for them, but we know its for us.  Salas had left, but he was already familiar with the script.

In the top of the 5th, the Royals were enjoying a 3 to 1 lead with two quick outs.  A recently called up kid, named Tim Anderson was coming up to bat.  A man in his 60s ahead of us, pencil necked and sitting with his wife, decided it was a perfect time to talk shit.  Being on the other side of a backstop is pretty empowering I guess.

“You haven’t hit anything today, Anderson.  0 for 2.  How you liking Kauffman?”

Anderson watched a 94 mph fastball go by for a strike.  Then he took an 81 mph curveball and drove it, beginning a two out rally the Royals would not recover from.  Whether a kid is appreciated or not, they grow up all the same.  Hopefully some of them get around on it.