Taken out to the ballpark
by Peter B. Brace Independent Writer
Just into the second inning of the first game of a doubleheader between the Pawtucket Red Sox and the Rochester Red Wings, my three-year-old nephew, Rory, climbs over his mother and, kneeling on his father's lap, strains in my direction to tell me something extremely important.

Peter hangs with Paws, eats lots of hot dogs and gets small in Pawtucket.

"Uncle Pete, I've had a long day and I'm tired, will you please take me back to Granny's house?"

Well said; my sentiments exactly. My sister, Sarah, brother-in-law, John, and I all look at each other wide-eyed after this utterance, all of us astounded that Rory, worn out from an already long hot day featuring a double family birthday party, got such a complete, articulate sentence out amidst all the clapping, cheering and booing in McCoy Stadium.

From my box seat four rows up from the PawSox dugout, I watched the Red Sox farm team get shelled by the Minnesota Twins' Triple A affiliate. It was a sweltering, muggy evening last Friday in Pawtucket, and Young Ro' succinctly tapped my own wayward thoughts.

"Why do I have to be here? Bed sounds so much better than cramped seats truly not designed for seven-footers."

Jolting back to my senses after Ro's feeble and short-lived coup to get us back to Granny's in Concord, Mass., I reminded myself that this was really his father John's night and that I would have to deal with seven, possibly 18 innings of Rory's protests and those of three enormously overweight off-duty firemen four rows below us who, between multiple inhalings of gravy fries, fried dough, nachos and pizza slices all washed down with Budweiser, were heckling loudly every call against the PawSox.

On the advice of my sister, I had gotten tickets to the game for John's Christmas present because John loved minor league baseball. Growing up in the Twin Cities area, the only team to watch besides his beloved "Twinkies" was a non-affiliated team called the St. Paul Saints. As John informed me, because Triple A ball is one step away from playing in the majors, and the Saints were, comparatively, a more or less glorified after-work-with-the-guys team, seeing the Pawtucket Red Sox go at the Rochester Red Wings was almost better than being at a Sox-Twins game for him.

You don't want to know what I think, but I'll relay it anyway so you'll know where my dark sarcasm is rooted. With this declaration, I realize I run the risk of outing myself as un-American, but since this is the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave(s), I am then free and very brave to be bored to death by baseball. I couldn't care less about it. I'd rather be paddling in my kayak watching the sun go down over the harbor, out hiking searching for fireflies, bats and woodcocks or out to dinner with one my many adoring female fans.

I can watch movies for hours on end; many of them, in fact, about baseball. I love the stories and the people in the "Natural," "League of Their Own," "Babe" (not the pig, but the John Goodman film) and "Field of Dreams." But to sit down for three hours and watch men clad in polyester and kneehigh socks whack at a ball of string wrapped in leather, run around and catch balls while a ballpark full of fans gets pie-eyed on the King of Beers and arteriosclerosis from gorging on the fine healthy food from the concession stands is just not my idea of a good time.

All right, I'm done bashing the sport. My co-worker, from the fine burg of Brockton, Mass., is a rabid Sox fan. I get his passion. At best, I'm a fairweather fan. Not wanting to miss what I knew was history in the making, I watched every single Red Sox-Yankees game and every single Red Sox- Cardinals game in the playoffs when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, breaking the Curse of the Bambino.

But I'm not squared in front of my Sony on the edge of the couch cushions, suds in one hand, the remote in the other barking at the ump for all 162 regular season games, even if the Sox are in first place in the American League, seven games in front of the Yankees, as of Aug. 5. It's bad enough that I have to be inside writing this column on such an amazing summer day.

However, there were the hotdogs. McCoy Stadium's concessionaires all served amazingly delicious tube steaks at a mildly inflated $4.75 a pop. I had four of them with relish and mustard with a monster cup of Coca-Cola, joining the three firemen in their junk food feeding frenzy. I nibbled at John's French fries and looked longingly at fans around me eating miniature baseball caps filled with chocolate and vanilla ice cream but did not imbibe in this delicacy.

Watching the game with John, as my sister reminded me, was great because he could explain every little detail of how baseball is played. I got to see two home runs, many amazing high-ball catches just inside the park and nearly a dust-up between the two teams when the PawSox contested a hit by one of the Red Wings' players that appeared to be just inside the left field foul pole. Most of each bench cleared. There was lots of shouting, dirtkicking and angry, wild gestures toward the pole. Eventually, the umpire ruled the ball foul, and play resumed. Unfortunately for the PawSox, although they dodged a grand slam, the ruling opened the door for three runs to cross home plate, setting the stage for the 7-3 pasting the Red Wings gave the Pawtucket Red Sox.

You have just read my first and last baseball game coverage, but I guarantee I would go back to Pawtucket for those hot dogs, especially since tickets were

just $10 each. I