Turner Field: Through the Eyes of a Dotty Half Adult
After a fifteen year hiatus, I finally returned to the hallowed grounds of Turner Field, named after the illustrious media tycoon responsible for one of the greatest television cartoons of the 1990s (Captain Planet). Ok, so hallowed may be too generous a word if you’re comparing major league stadiums, but unlike my esteemed colleagues here at the Squazzington Post, I don’t actually know much about this wonderful national pastime, so I’m going to assume the field is steeped with enough history to warrant a somewhat fancy word. Regardless, what is important is that I finally experienced baseball through the mature eyes of an adult; a grown individual ready to participate in the spectacle of a great American tradition as opposed to a child, who only really saw the game as a necessary chore that came with acquiring the free Wrinkles Beanie Baby.
Speaking of such--the first thing I noticed was that there were no free Beanie Babies. This did not bode well for my pre-game gusto, but I resolutely staved off the shock that I would have to settle for a game program, and made my way to the upper pavilion of the stadium. For most humans, this might be an easy task, but for a mildly out of shape adult (who has a history of severe leg cramps) that had just been forced to endure a leg workout earlier in the day by overzealous gym rat type friends, waddling up the countless pavillion stairs was close to physical torture. Full disclosure: I probably spent more time chewing on assorted fruit candies than working out while I was at the gym, so I was more likely sore from not sitting for eight hours straight. Soon enough, I reached my seat in a surprisingly crowded section, just in time to witness Freddie Freeman of the Atlanta Braves hit a homerun! As the energy from the raucous cheering coursed through the stadium, I knew my arrival at just this moment had to signify a good omen. After settling into my strangely irksome plastic blue seat, I began to listen to the young men in front of me relive past games in which they had witnessed "the greatness that is Fredward Freeman." I learned he is considered the most stalwart bat amongst a hitting lineup composed of streaky hitters, but since I can’t think of a medieval war simile for him in this situation, you can ignore this piece of useless information. This article isn’t about actual baseball, it’s a recording of my experience.
Midway through the second inning, I received a raven (text message) from my friend that he had taken up a post with his companions behind the first base foul pole. I looked down at the field and after discerning which base was first, my eyes followed a line extending past the running path towards a tall, thin yellow tower, which I can only assume was at one point the mast of an unfortunately skinny passenger liner that sailed the Atlantic. Why they decided to paint it yellow rather than revive it to its former glory is beyond me, especially since the restoration could only add to the so-called esteemed history I imagine some may claim for Turner Field. The section where my friend was situated appeared to be bathed in the shining sunlight of the evening across a sea of the blue plastic seats. No amount of yoga could prepare one for this journey, yet I grudgingly began my trek in spite of the obstacles in my path. You see, this complicated task was made all the more perilous due to the fact that I had forgotten my handkerchief. I knew I would have to face the embarrassment of a heavily glistened forehead during my introductions to my friend’s companions due to the light rays that sun frenched my skin rather than sun kissed it. When I say sun frenched, I mean the light was like a wildly violating tongue of fire on my skin, so much so that it felt as though I was back in India. I made sure I was high enough among the seats to avoid the watchful stares of the redshirts (ushers), just in case they chose to send me back to my seat. Fortunately after a few minutes of stealthy evasion, I found my friend. I plopped down in my seat after carefully mopping my brow with my undershirt out of their sight, ready to continue watching the game in welcome company.
See info-graphic for reference
I learned some of the nuances of the game from these seasoned baseball fans, such as the rank and position of the defense, and how the batting order was decided. In addition to this wealth of information I gained, I made a few observations of my own that I believe only enriched my appreciation for the game. Firstly, the pitcher (the guy who throws the ball) appeared to revolve his head more often than most people do, to keep an eye on his opponents on base. I believe it would be fair of me to deduce that he developed this skill after years of training, based off the movements of owls swiveling their heads to gain a bearing on their surroundings. I also learned that music, both patriotic and of the wonderful late 20th and 21st century persuasion, had the ability to make the crowd rise into unashamed and uncoordinated undulations (sometimes even with young’uns who might be better off not emulating the older ones as much as they seemed to). This massive influence was perhaps my most valuable note, as I believe it speaks to the impressive power this wonderful pastime holds for its fans. In all seriousness, the experience was very relaxing and surprisingly lacked the stress I find myself feeling with most sports, which was likely due to a combination of the speed of the game and the fact that the Braves won handily. I even ate a jumbo hot-dog to top off this All-American experience. Although I can’t say I paid too much attention to the game since I kept finding distractions between attempting to spot the scattered members of the church group who had chosen to wear neon green shirts, conversing with my companions, and daydreaming (SEE “A Recurring Day Dream; or how the Squazz Post Won the Nobel Prize”), I can say that I enjoyed myself and would not be opposed to returning to the hallowed grounds of Turner Field.