Tampa Yankees Blog Entry

Tampa is home to a Class A minor league baseball team, the Tampa Yankees. My husband, John, sometimes takes our girls, Brooks and Madison, to Tampa Yankees games, and until this summer I had not intruded on this sweet daddy-daughter ritual. One night, though, I was sufficiently well-rested and curious and when I asked John he said, “Of course you can come” because, really, what else could he say? So I went. And I learned a lot about their daddy-daughter time but not so much about baseball. John let me know ahead of time that the girls don’t really follow the game, though they never want to leave early. “They eat a lot of snacks,” he said.

John tells me there is often a “theme” to draw people in. This was Jimmy Buffet night. They had a guy singing Jimmy Buffet songs with a little PA system and if you were standing within 14 feet of the snow cone concession, upstairs on the east side of the stadium, you’d hear he was pretty good. Also in attendance were “Parrotheads.” These are, apparently, Jimmy Buffet fans that show their appreciation by wearing cut-off shorts, flip flops and feathery hats. There’s also quite a bit of beer drinking and maybe other mood-altering substances, but I’m just assuming (you know I’m right). I got the impression, watching the Parrotheads, that maybe the clothes and beer and party attitude came first and the Jimmy Buffet appreciating just fit nicely and gave the whole dressing poorly and altering moods thing a more organized feel. Anyway, there were maybe 11 Parrotheads at the game and they sat together and, not surprisingly, seemed to be having a very good time.

As we walked in we passed, among other things, a table devoted to educating the public (the public attending a minor league baseball game on a Tuesday night, anyway) about the dangers manatees are facing and encouraging us to help save the manatees by giving them money to pay for, I assume, more educational materials they can hand out at other poorly attended sporting event-type venues. The thing they did in an attempt to draw prospective donors to the table was hand out free manatee coloring books. Well, we happen to already have some free manatee coloring books we don’t use, which we got when we went swimming with the manatees (see previous blog entry). Also, we didn’t want to give them our money. But we couldn’t just walk by these manatee-loving volunteers, averting our eyes and ignoring their plaintive voices, “Little girls! Do you want a manatee coloring book? It’s free.” (John says he could.) So, instead I let them know that we really love manatees, too, and support their cause and already have the coloring book. But I didn’t say it just like that. What I actually said was, “Oh, we went swimming with the manatees.” Which doesn’t really convey the message I was intending, does it? As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized the message I had actually communicated was more along the lines of, “the manatees have already fulfilled their usefulness in our lives and we want nothing more to do with them, or you, for that matter.” I felt bad, but not enough to take a coloring book or give them money.

The stadium was only about ten percent full, so we were able to sit wherever we wanted. I really wanted to sit behind the protective net that hangs behind home plate. While I am typically not a worrier, I was concerned about balls coming into the stands. I’ve seen a gruesome email forward of a guy getting hit by a baseball at a game and the image stuck with me. John and the girls wanted to sit NOT behind the protective net and I was really just a guest at their game, so I determined that I would simply never take my eye off the ball, catch it if it came our way and thereby keep my family safe and maybe get a game ball in the process. Simple enough.

As soon as we found our seats and settled in, we were up again for snacks. The girls chose shelled peanuts. Peanuts in shells.  In a million years I would not have guessed that the girls and John would eat shelled peanuts at the game. I don’t know if I’ve ever used the phrase “shelled peanuts” in the presence of my children, or even John. I have nothing against shelled peanuts, of course. I just didn’t know that anyone else in my family eats them. I was learning a lot.

We found our seats again and the National Anthem was sung, which always makes me tear up, which always makes Brooks look at me like I’m crazy. And then – the game started.

Of course, I kept my eye on the ball every second. At least until the peanut shell throwing started. We removed the shell, threw the peanut into our mouths and then tossed the shell at each other. The best throws were those where the shell ended up stuck in the other person’s hair, but that person didn’t know. By “we” here, I mean “the girls and I.” John was watching the game and just dropping his shells on the ground like you’re supposed to do. If I had been watching the ball I would have missed it when Brooks dropped her peanut on the ground and threw the shell in her mouth, so that bit was worth the risk. Shell throwing occupied the top or maybe the bottom of the inning, so I missed quite a lot, I think. But, then, back to keeping my eye on the ball.

As we watched, John would sometimes lean over and ask the girls a baseball related question, like, “Where’s the shortstop?” and Maddie would point at someone and John would show her where the shortstop actually was. “The one you pointed to is the second baseman,” he explained. I wondered (out loud) why he stood so far away from second base and John went on about something or other and then Brooks interrupted with “Ooh! Three peanuts!” and Madison and I joined her in wondering over her single shell with three entire peanuts inside.

I know the basics of baseball. I know that a foul ball is a strike unless it would be a third strike (an out) and in that case it’s just a do-over. An RBI is a “Run Batted In.” If the pitcher throws four bad pitches (“balls”) and the batter doesn’t swing, the batter gets to walk to first base. In the spirit of the game, and as long as I was going to have to watch the ball every second (mostly), then I might as well pay attention, right? So, I did. For a minute. But then Brooks said, “Oh! This is an adorable peanut! Just one nut. Aaww.” I am telling you, that is a verbatim quote. How could I be expected to watch the game with my kids saying incredibly cute things and that awesome bag of peanuts distracting me every few moments? I decided to just be sure to pay attention when there was a left-handed batter. John told me that the right-handed batters would foul the ball the other way and I chose to believe him because by that time (dusk) I was finding the ball watching a little tedious. At one point, frustrated, I told John, “I can NOT see the ball.” He suggested that I take off my sunglasses. That helped.

When the peanuts ran out we bought some more snacks. On the way I noticed that the birds were coming boldly down into the stadium eaves and that they were, in fact, bats. Bats. When we returned to our seats we watched the outfield lights carefully and discovered that there were many, many bats. How cool is that? We usually pay admission to the zoo to see live bats – and here they were, at the baseball game! Just flying around right in front of us flaunting their batness and no one except us even seemed to notice the live entertainment going on directly over the heads of the ball players. We could see them easily because they were eating the bugs that were swarming to the lights. Maddie explained that the bugs stay by the lights so they can see if there is any danger. I didn’t correct her. While we were watching the bats flying near the scoreboard the big screen flashed an ad for Sierra Mist. Brooks thought that was exciting. She said, “I love Sierra Mist!”

Once the sun went down a gentle breeze began to move, which was lovely. After the third time I mentioned the lovely breeze, Brooks said, “Here’s a breeze,” sat on my leg and farted. Farting on others is a direct result of daddy-daughter time, by the way. As a general rule I try not to force my mothering on John’s time with the girls. So, when Brooks farted on me I laughed and rolled my eyes at John and tried to appreciate that her comment was very clever and her comedic timing was right on. I did step in, though, when John picked up the hot dog that Madison had dropped on the floor and handed it back to her. Then I tried not to think of what she must have eaten at all the ball games I didn’t attend. I said a quick prayer, too.

At the seventh inning stretch I asked what a seventh inning stretch was and before John could reply I received this answer from Madison: “That’s when they stop and they play some games and they stretch and they can go up to the bathroom and it’s a stretch.” She’s right. Also, it’s when they sing “Take Me Out To The Ball Game.”

After we bought some more snacks, we returned to our seats and the girls and I just ignored the game altogether. I took a picture of the girls with John and then another die-hard baseball fan’s wife offered to take a picture of all of us. Then the girls fought over the camera in that irritating whining bickering way that doesn’t stop until I step in and say something and then they band together against me. I made them take turns.

While Brooks had the camera Madison told me about that one song in that one episode of SpongeBob SquarePants that always makes her cry.

While Madison had the camera Brooks explained why the name “Flying Tigers” isn’t a good name for a baseball team. (Tigers can’t fly.)

We stayed until the end, and even a little more to watch the guy who drives the thing that smooths out the orange sand on the baselines (I even know what a baseline is). Madison wondered why they smooth out the sand if they’re just going to walk on it again, which pretty much sums up her argument against doing her chores, too.

While we walked back to the car, John and I held hands and the girls bounced around us, talking excitedly about how late it was and how they were not even the least little bit sleepy. John and I smiled at each other, knowing their sugar high would end with a crash, which would mark the start of daddy-mommy time.

I’m really, really glad I went to the game.