An All-Star Dream Turns to Nightmare

Never mind the Tailhook scandal or even Anita Hill. A woman’s struggle against harassment extends beyond the workplace. It is even being fought in the stands of the All-Star Game. Take, for example, the experience of my friend, fellow television producer Stacey Nogy, at last month’s game.

A lifelong baseball fanatic, Stacey wasted no time buying a $50 ticket to watch the best of the best compete at San Diego Jack Murphy Stadium. But her All-Star Dream soon became an All-Star Nightmare.

She had just settled into her seat and adjusted her binoculars. She shivered with excitement as the “Star-Spangled Banner” was sung.

The moment was interrupted by a beer-gutted man in his 30s, squeezing through the aisle to sit in the empty seat next to her.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted her. She grunted a noncommittal response, determined not to let the glow of the day be tarnished by the demeaning expression she had learned to despise.

“Honey, I got a favor to ask ya,” he intruded again. “My friend is sitting a couple sections up, and I wonder if you’d change seats with him, so we can sit together.” He pointed to a less desirable seat, much higher up.

Stacey politely declined, but the man persisted.

“No, you gotta do this--he’s just waiting for me to wave him down.”

“No, really,” she said firmly. “I’m quite happy here. I can see just fine and I’m not interested in moving.”

“Hey!” he snapped, the odor of stale beer pungent on his breath. “What’s it matter to you? You’re here alone anyway. What’s the difference if you sit up there or here, anyhow?”

“The difference is I bought the ticket for this seat, and I’m very happy with it. Now drop it,” my friend said, feeling shaken.

Her determination only incensed him. Soon he was calling her names, screaming profanities to intimidate her, and raising such a commotion that people around them began squirming uncomfortably.

“Why are you doing this?” Stacey tried to reason with him, fighting back tears of anger. “I just want to watch the game.”

But his vicious tirade continued unabated.

My friend threatened to seek the aid of a security guard.

“Go ahead--get a security guard,” was the reply. “In fact, get a dozen cops. I don’t give a s----. I’m not moving; you are!”

With a lump in her throat from fighting back her tears, she tracked down a security guard to settle the matter.

“So, is the guy your boyfriend or something?” the guard asked after hearing her description of the problem.

“No--I don’t know him at all. He’s just a jerk who wants me to give up my seat for his friend,” she said, choking on the words.

“So who are you here with?” the guard asked.

“What? Well, nobody. I came alone,” my friend answered, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“Wait--you came here by yourself?” the guard asked with disbelief.

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?”

The security guard led her back to her seat, saying, “Let’s check this out.”

But, after he became the next victim of the man’s verbal abuse, the guard decided the only solution was to move my friend to another seat. She reluctantly agreed.

But she no sooner got settled in an empty chair a few rows over than a policeman approached, demanding to see her ticket.

“Look, a security guard just told me to sit here . . . “

“Yeah, sure--come on,” he said, grabbing her arm.

She tried to explain, but the cop showed no interest and ushered her back to her original row, where the instigator began another obscenity-laden attack on her.

Still, the harasser was not evicted.

The security guard returned and a few more undercover police wandered over to see what was going on.

Finally, a policeman gave my friend two options--stay in her seat and suffer the hurled insults or trade her ticket for an inferior one confiscated from some scalpers. She chose the latter.

She says her memory of the game that day is sporadic. She remembers noticing it was the second inning by the time she settled into her new seat, even farther from the field than the one to which she had refused to move. She remembers looking through her binoculars and seeing her old seat and feeling a white rage of anger at the sight of the beer-gut’s buddy happily sitting in it.

Stacey says she knows her experience flies in the face of what is generally believed about the stadium security guards: that they rule with an iron fist and are quick to eject anyone who misbehaves.

Perhaps it was because the All-Star Game tickets were expensive, or perhaps it was because President Bush was in attendance, but the guards failed to live up to that reputation on this day. Clearly, they chose the path of least resistance--even if it wasn’t the fairest path.

Recalling the humiliation of that day to me, Stacey said she would think twice before attending a sports event alone again.

The way I see it, she was a victim twice that day. First, the victim of a man’s verbal violence and then a victim of the male perspective that women have no place in sports and can be shuffled off to a corner with no complaint.

Could Stacey have done something else to defend herself?

I remember another friend describing how the “raving maniac” approach once worked for her when she was being hassled in a bar. She said she just looked the guy squarely in the eye, and with a cold, steely smile quietly described in graphic detail how much she’d enjoy taking her knife from her purse and slashing his body from throat to genitals. He must have believed her, because he moved on. Fast.

What if Stacey had insisted that the harasser be kicked out? If she had made a scene, demanding her rights to the seat she had paid for, would the police have physically removed the loudmouth? And if they had, what are the chances he would have been waiting for her with revenge on his mind once the game ended?

Then there’s the question of why sporting events bring out the ugliness in some men. I’ve seen it before--football, baseball, hockey--it doesn’t matter the contest, the reaction is the same. Testosterone levels go through the roof, mental function goes out the door and women’s rights are left out in the cold.