SIT DOWN AND WATCH THE DAMN GAME.
Thirteen days ago, 40,000 people stood inside Comiskey Park and offered one another the sign of peace. A Catholic priest stood on the field as the White Sox celebrated Pope Leo XIV, a South Side kid and Sox fan who somehow wound up succeeding Saint Peter.
People turned to strangers and said to each
other, “Peace be with you” which received the reply, “And also
with you.”
I watched it and cried.
Yesterday, in the same ballpark, a bunch of
drunken jagoffs were tumbling over seats in the upper deck trying to beat the
hell out of each other.
There was
another fight earlier in the week at Wrigley between Cubs and Sox fans.
This isn't a new thing.
Ballpark fights have been around forever, and
Comiskey has had more than its share of notorious ones. We once had a father
and son run onto the field and attack the opposing team's first-base coach.
…And spare me the demographic
explanations.
White guys fight, Black guys fight, Hispanic
guys fight, women fight, Cubs fans fight and Sox fans fight.
The common denominator is assholes.
Usually, a couple assclowns fortified with
twelve-dollar beers, but I think there is something else going on.
We have turned the ballpark into a
three-hour carnival where apparently nobody can be left alone with a baseball
game anymore.
Music blasting, video boards flashing, contests,
promotions, kiss cams, dancing and screaming. The billboards have statistics
covering every square inch of available real estate.
Silence is now considered a crisis.
I want to go backward. Give me the organ. Give
me Gene Honda. Give me a Dixieland band playing underneath the stands. Give me
fireworks when a Sox player hits a home run.
That is it.
I do
not need Grand Theft Auto music rattling the upper deck between pitches. I do
not need some jackass dancing on the scoreboard. I do not need to know a
hitter's launch angle, exit velocity and OPS against left-handed relief
pitchers on Tuesdays after 8:15.
I just want to watch the damn game. Bring
back the Andy Frains standing at the end of the aisle. Hell, bring back a dress
code. Not jackets, fedoras and ties. Just dress like you are going someplace
where other human beings will be present.
Grown men should not wear tank tops to a
baseball game. Women should not dress like they are hooking after the game.
Have a hot dog. Eat some Cracker Jack. Drink
a couple beers. Buy the nachos and keep a scorecard.
Talk baseball with the guy sitting next to
you and when you get up to take a piss, wait until the play is over
before climbing over twelve people.
When did we stop doing that?
There was an etiquette to going to a
baseball game. You learned it from your Oldman, and he learned it from his.
Baseball doesn't need constant
stimulation. That is one of the reasons I love it. It has pauses, it breathes,
it gives you time to think.
That
is what we are afraid of now.
Thirteen days ago, 40,000 people at Comiskey
Park stopped everything long enough to turn toward a stranger and wish him
peace.
Think
about that.
No
politics.
No
Cubs.
No
Sox.
No
race.
No
bullshit.
Just one human being looking another in
the eye, Peace be with you.
Instead of another video board, another
promotion and another speaker blasting music into the upper deck, we ought to
try a little more of that and if that doesn't work?
Bring back the Andy Frains and sit
down and watch the damn game.
Okay
Chalkheads, sorry to bitch and moan on a Monday Morning….
…. Play Ball!
