Stop, Drop and Blog

Two Saturdays ago, FireDad and I handed both brothers over to my parents and headed into Pittsburgh for a Date Night. While others’ date nights may involve fancy dinners, movies and fancy clothing, we take a more game oriented approach to date night. And by game, why yes, I do mean baseball.

I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, for those who aren’t in the know, and as such, I am a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. It’s true. They’re awful. But when you’re from Pittsburgh, you tend to look past the doom and gloom and find that silver lining. The silver lining, of course, being PNC Park. (Of course, I was still able to find that silver lining at Three Rivers, but, you’ve got to admit… PNC Park is swanky.) FireDad somehow escaped the love of the heinous teams of the state in which he was born and raised and in which we now live and raise our children. He, too, is a Pirates fan.

He’s also a fan of sandwiches with french fries on them, so, it’s really win-win. (Yes, Primanti Brothers has a restaurant at the stadium. See? Totally win-win.)

And while we had a great night (because the Pirates won in extra innings!), I’ve been mulling something over since we left the stadium that night. And by mulling it over, I do mean that I’ve been stewing over it and getting angrier and angrier. And now? It’s time to rant.

The past two years that we have made it out for a game, we have been seated in front of, next two and/or behind the Most Inconsiderate Fans Ever. This year, as we attended the game on Fire Fighter’s Night, I figured there would be some camaraderie, some laughter and a night of baseball among brothers. The guy seated directly behind me had a different idea. Apparently he and his crew had been drinking in the parking lot for four hours prior to the first pitch. And his language showed it.

FireDad and I decided, even prior to that first pitch, that if we took one sip of beer every time the guy behind us called the Cubs, the Pirates, his friends, other fans, the umpire or the Parrot a “bum,” we would have been rip-roaring drunk by the bottom of the first inning. Everything that happened warranted use of the word “bum.” Cubs pitcher walked our guy? He was a bum. Umpire called a Pirate out? He was a bum. Pirates batter struck out? He was a bum. The Cubs fans seated in front of FireDad and I stood up to cheer? They were bums.

Now, the word itself doesn’t really strike me, while writing this, as overly offensive. And, by itself, even at the loud volume with which it was screamed, it would have been tolerable. But it wasn’t just the word all by its lonesome. We had some big-f-word bums. And you know if he’s dropping the f-bomb, all other words are “fair play” as well. You know, even though the announcer says, prior to that first pitch, that the ball park is a family environment and foul language will not be tolerated.

I never said anything to the bum himself because I learned never to fight with someone who is drunk. But I started to think. And as I thought, I started to get mad.

I went to Three Rivers with regularity as I was growing up. My Dad loved a baseball game and I loved anything that my Dad took me to, especially if it involved nachos. I grew up understanding the game and played softball myself (pitcher) for eleven years. I want to share that same kind of love with my boys. But how am I supposed to take them to a game when bums like that are always sitting around us? Now, granted, we were sitting pretty darn close on the first base line (no foul balls; bummer). Looking up to “Peanut Heaven,” I saw some seats that we could have sat in without being bothered by any bums. But is this fair? Should children and their heights-wary Moms have to be forced to sit at the tippy-top of a stadium just to avoid something that the announcer said not to do in the first place?

I’m not talking about taking BigBrother to the game this year. Or even next year. Our goal was the summer that he is four (two summers) as that will be his first year playing T-Ball (should he choose to actually stick with it after they start). And I realize that I can’t shield him from foul language for all eternity (have you heard what I say when I step on a tiny, sharp and pointy fire truck?) but I really don’t want him walking out of PNC Park calling everyone he sees a big-f-word bum!

True. To protect my child (and my ear drums) (and my sanity) (and the guy’s face), I could be the Language Police and go find security to whine about the guy’s language behind me. But do you know what? They don’t always eject those guys. Most often they just come and tell them to tone it down. Do you know then gets nasty things said to them? Yeah. The Language Police. It’s a lose-lose situation right there; one that surely won’t make the kid’s game more enjoyable.

And so, it looks like two summers from now, you will find our family in the tippy-top row. I guess we’ll find out if BigBrother has good eyesight, right? It’s a shame we don’t… and that heights make me squeamish. Oh, it’s all for the love of the game, right?