We went to Atlanta for the weekend with Drake, Alex and Taylor and stayed at Collin's parents' condo, which is absolutely fabulous. The intention of the trip revolved solely around the Braves vs. Phillies series Friday, Saturday and Sunday, but it was truly a near perfect weekend; it felt like vacation and was the perfect balance of all things good and simple.
I've been to major league baseball games at Fenway Park in Boston and Busch Stadium in St. Louis the last several years, but it's been nearly ten years since I've been to an Atlanta Braves game. Now, I'm like all you other kids that grew up in the South and rooted for the best major league baseball team around. I'm also a kid that grew up in West Georgia in the the early nineties when we had days at school designated for wearing our Atlanta Braves get-up during the fall playoffs; we're talking the heyday Ron Gant, Terry Pendleton, Mark Lemke, David Justice and the The Crime Dog himself, Fred McGriff. Yep those days when "The Ted" was the old, pre-Olympic Atlanta Fulton County Stadium.
I know baseball; the rules, the strategy and what's goin on. But I'm not that invested in it. I get excited when our team's up to bat, when we steal bases and turn double plays. But that's about the extent of my attention span on the diamond. So there's no doubt that I am mostly there for the hot dogs, a good sun tan, the people watching and I live for the tomahawk chop. As I sat there with Alex and three boys, two from Alabama and one from Tennessee, I gained a real appreciation for a childhood turned adult allegiance to America's greatest pastime.
After taking our seats under the lights on Friday night, I looked to each side of me at Collin, Drake & Taylor, found the sheer joy and wonder in their eyes, and it only took me about 10 seconds to know the difference and realize what I am not. What I am not is a boy who grew up in those early nineties days...who lived, breathed and dreamed of Braves baseball. A boy who played little league and wanted nothing more than his team jersey to be screen printed with "Braves" across the chest year after year. And I am not that little boy who's grown up, who will always be a die hard Braves Fan no matter where he lives and until the day he dies. Or that boy who talks about the days his dad took him to Braves games and waits for the days he'll take his kid to a game. Taking this all in was shocking and beautiful and telling and just plain right.
I sat back and smiled and just kept taking it all in. I snapped some pictures, but they really don't do it justice. There's something in the air at a ball park that big.
I, on the other hand, spend my nine innings trying to figure out why each player chose the "batter up" song that he did, I fall in love with the cotton candy and peanut vendors who are drenched in sweat, working so hard, and with the biggest smiles on their faces. And I totally think the field crew, who are like glorified synchronized swimmers, only with dirt and rakes, are truly the stars of the show!
I also love to listen to the chatter around me...like the dad behind us who brought his 5 year old son to his first game and his expectations were really let down. He grew increasingly frustrated as his little boy asked for his 17th snow cone, his dangling legs kicked me in the head for the tenth time, he spilled cheese down Collin's back and couldn't care less that his dad is exclaiming "pay attention to Chipper Jones up at bat...he will undoubtedly be in the Hall of Fame one day, and you could say you saw him at your first Braves game!" I turned around to see the boy was stuffing cotton candy up his nose. Just classic.
Then at the worst moments possible I would ask Collin the most useless questions, like "I wonder who invented 'the wave'?" or "would you please get me a t-shirt cannon for Christmas this year?" Granted, he is much more concerned with who they are calling in from the bull pen and the two outs on the board and that we are down by one run in the 7th inning...but he patiently looks at me and just grins then says "really? can we have a conversation about this later?...but, dang you sure are cute".
So I sat back, chuckled, smiled and just kept taking it all in. I snapped some pictures, but they really don't do it justice. There's something in the air at a ball park that big.
Maybe its the big time players? Maybe it's the hot dogs and the jumbotron? Maybe its the hope for a home run and catching the ball in your glove? Maybe it's just watching your team, your childhood dream?
It's different for everyone, I now know.
For me, it's the people and the tomahawk chop.
I'm passionate about the chop, y'all. You see, our mascot in high school was the Braves, only we were maroon and gray, with an actual brave figure...head dress and all. And until Friday night, I didn't realize how much I missed the chop. So with every down beat of that drum, so went my arm. I chanted each hum and I loved every minute of it.
Between the glow in three dudes eyes, taking in the best of big league baseball, embracing a good slice of everyday America and my beloved tomahawk chop...
I understood life a little bit better in section 115 row 14.
I've been to major league baseball games at Fenway Park in Boston and Busch Stadium in St. Louis the last several years, but it's been nearly ten years since I've been to an Atlanta Braves game. Now, I'm like all you other kids that grew up in the South and rooted for the best major league baseball team around. I'm also a kid that grew up in West Georgia in the the early nineties when we had days at school designated for wearing our Atlanta Braves get-up during the fall playoffs; we're talking the heyday Ron Gant, Terry Pendleton, Mark Lemke, David Justice and the The Crime Dog himself, Fred McGriff. Yep those days when "The Ted" was the old, pre-Olympic Atlanta Fulton County Stadium.
I know baseball; the rules, the strategy and what's goin on. But I'm not that invested in it. I get excited when our team's up to bat, when we steal bases and turn double plays. But that's about the extent of my attention span on the diamond. So there's no doubt that I am mostly there for the hot dogs, a good sun tan, the people watching and I live for the tomahawk chop. As I sat there with Alex and three boys, two from Alabama and one from Tennessee, I gained a real appreciation for a childhood turned adult allegiance to America's greatest pastime.
After taking our seats under the lights on Friday night, I looked to each side of me at Collin, Drake & Taylor, found the sheer joy and wonder in their eyes, and it only took me about 10 seconds to know the difference and realize what I am not. What I am not is a boy who grew up in those early nineties days...who lived, breathed and dreamed of Braves baseball. A boy who played little league and wanted nothing more than his team jersey to be screen printed with "Braves" across the chest year after year. And I am not that little boy who's grown up, who will always be a die hard Braves Fan no matter where he lives and until the day he dies. Or that boy who talks about the days his dad took him to Braves games and waits for the days he'll take his kid to a game. Taking this all in was shocking and beautiful and telling and just plain right.
I sat back and smiled and just kept taking it all in. I snapped some pictures, but they really don't do it justice. There's something in the air at a ball park that big.
I, on the other hand, spend my nine innings trying to figure out why each player chose the "batter up" song that he did, I fall in love with the cotton candy and peanut vendors who are drenched in sweat, working so hard, and with the biggest smiles on their faces. And I totally think the field crew, who are like glorified synchronized swimmers, only with dirt and rakes, are truly the stars of the show!
I also love to listen to the chatter around me...like the dad behind us who brought his 5 year old son to his first game and his expectations were really let down. He grew increasingly frustrated as his little boy asked for his 17th snow cone, his dangling legs kicked me in the head for the tenth time, he spilled cheese down Collin's back and couldn't care less that his dad is exclaiming "pay attention to Chipper Jones up at bat...he will undoubtedly be in the Hall of Fame one day, and you could say you saw him at your first Braves game!" I turned around to see the boy was stuffing cotton candy up his nose. Just classic.
Then at the worst moments possible I would ask Collin the most useless questions, like "I wonder who invented 'the wave'?" or "would you please get me a t-shirt cannon for Christmas this year?" Granted, he is much more concerned with who they are calling in from the bull pen and the two outs on the board and that we are down by one run in the 7th inning...but he patiently looks at me and just grins then says "really? can we have a conversation about this later?...but, dang you sure are cute".
So I sat back, chuckled, smiled and just kept taking it all in. I snapped some pictures, but they really don't do it justice. There's something in the air at a ball park that big.
Maybe its the big time players? Maybe it's the hot dogs and the jumbotron? Maybe its the hope for a home run and catching the ball in your glove? Maybe it's just watching your team, your childhood dream?
It's different for everyone, I now know.
For me, it's the people and the tomahawk chop.
I'm passionate about the chop, y'all. You see, our mascot in high school was the Braves, only we were maroon and gray, with an actual brave figure...head dress and all. And until Friday night, I didn't realize how much I missed the chop. So with every down beat of that drum, so went my arm. I chanted each hum and I loved every minute of it.
Between the glow in three dudes eyes, taking in the best of big league baseball, embracing a good slice of everyday America and my beloved tomahawk chop...
I understood life a little bit better in section 115 row 14.
2 comments:
GRRRRRRReat post!!! I'll have to let Steve read it tonight!
PS my up to bat song would probably have to be the theme song to Saved by the Bell - no idea why.
This was a GREAT post and I can 100% relate to the fellas you were at the game with. I love baseball and the monologue that James Earl Jones does in Field of Dreams hits it right on the head. Thanks for writing this!
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