Game’s a Hit Even Though He’s Off Base

One sure way to get a grasp of the complexities of watching our national pastime is to bring a newcomer to a ballgame.

The other night, I took just such a baseball-innocent to a Dodger game against the New York Mets, trying to introduce her to the glories of Chavez Ravine on a palm-swaying July night in Los Angeles, cheering along with some 40,000 fellow fans in an attempt to root the home team on to victory. (They lost, 2 to 1.)

These days, our own national game is attracting huge crowds around the world. The Japanese, South Koreans and Cubans are going bonkers over baseball and have sent their home-grown products to put their country’s stamp on the game.

But what struck my Beijing-born companion were the lost details of a trip to the ballpark--the little dramas of landing tickets, finding the right food to eat and keeping even the youngest fans happy--nuances that after years of going to baseball games, I admit I am somehow no longer able to recognize.

Until now. To pervert Freud, a trip to the stadium is not just a trip to the stadium when seen through the fresh eyes of a baseball newcomer.

Now, I’m not really much of a die-hard baseball fan myself. Growing up, I went to a few triple-A games and later, in Kansas City and San Diego, I attended the occasional home opener or the down-the-stretch, gotta-win game of late August or early September.

I can call a pitcher’s balk when I see one. But I don’t follow the game closely enough to name the Dodger starting lineup or rattle off Brett Butler’s batting average.

Mainly, I go to games to see graceful professional athletes in action, to ogle over the power and beauty of a long ball stroked over the fence. I want to soak in the atmosphere of a rally chant in the bottom of the ninth, with two out and a man in scoring position, the home boys behind by a run. (Which is what happened the other night.)

So, you might call this night a case of the blind leading the baseball blind.

Actually, it was Newcomer’s idea to go to the game. Late one afternoon, she scored four free Dodger tickets, too late to scare up another couple. So we left early, prepared to give this Mandarin her first lesson in the American art of capitalism.

On Elysian Park Avenue, we pulled up to the first scalper we encountered.

I rolled down the window: “Two Loge seats,” I said, holding out the ducats, valued at $14 apiece. “Twenty-two bucks for the pair.”

“No way,” he said. “Game’s not gonna be a sellout. Fifteen for the both.”

Before I could answer, Newcomer broke in from the passenger seat.

“Twenty,” she said.

“Sold.”

*

With our sudden largess, we headed hungrily into the stadium and right to the snack line. Newcomer said she wanted a vegetable sandwich, something that wasn’t greasy.

“You can’t get anything that’s not greasy here,” I said. “It’s a baseball park.”

She looked over the menu, at the Dodger dogs and French fries and nachos with the questionable plastic-looking cheese.

“What’s in a hot dog?” she asked. “I’ve never had one.”

“You don’t want to know,” I said, deciding to take charge.

I ordered two super dogs, some fries, a bag of peanuts and a Coke. The cost was $13.75. Minus the five bucks for parking, we were still $1.25 ahead on our scalper windfall.

In our third base-side seats, Newcomer was immediately hooked by the energy of the crowd and the larger-than-life view of being so close to a bunch of white-uniformed athletes throwing a ball seemingly half a mile and running faster than thought humanly possible--a scene no TV screen, no matter what size, can match.

She dug the way the bright lights turned the grass into a cartoon green. She ooohed and aahed over the electronic scoreboard and the gigantic digitally enhanced replay screen.

But she was more impressed with the 8-year-old boy directly in front of us, who was sulking because he had asked his dad for popcorn and had been brought back peanuts instead.

“He’s not even watching the game,” Newcomer said.

At that point, neither were we. Instead, we watched the mini-drama unfold as the dad tried again and again to get the kid to try a peanut. Before the night was through, we watched another youngster consume two hot dogs, ice cream, cotton candy and a large popcorn.

“He sure eats a lot,” Newcomer said.

“That’s what kids do at baseball games,” I assured her. “They eat so much junk they go home with stomachaches. It’s sort of an American rite of passage.”

Later, when a couple took the seats next to us, I asked if they had bought from a scalper.

“Yeah,” the guy answered.

“Can I ask how much you paid for the tickets?”

“Thirty-five bucks,” he said.

Newcomer and I looked at each other, both knowing our scalper pal had made out fine.

“You can go to jail for something like that in China,” she said.

“Hey,” I said. “You can go to jail for that right here in L.A.”

*

As the game progressed, Newcomer took part in the inevitable human wave that swept the crowd when the Mets were at bat. She laughed out loud when the first convulsion of standing, raising your hands and cheering passed and asked, “What are they doing?”

“Um, they’re just having a good time,” I answered lamely.

“But they’re not watching the game,” she said, laughing as another wave passed.

“Well, notice they only do it when the visiting team is at bat,” I tried to explain, dumbfounded.

In the end, what delighted Newcomer weren’t the players but the fans themselves, and how they responded to the sensory bombardment of the ballpark around them. Like the replay screen lighting up with the giant “Charge!” to rouse the fans in crucial innings.

She was amazed by the fact that the largest roar from the crowd that night came not in response to any player, but when a young fan dashed onto the field and--while being chased by groundskeepers--slid headfirst into second base.

And she was held spellbound by how during the seventh-inning stretch, the screen showed the lyrics of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with various camera shots of people--men, women and children--singing along without looking at the words.

Why didn’t they have to look at the words? Newcomer wanted to know.

“I don’t know why,” I answered. “But nearly every single American I know knows the words to that song.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s that American rite of passage again.”

By the ninth inning, Newcomer was asking insightful questions about why runners couldn’t advance on fly balls. And why a foul ball was a called strike one or two, but never three.

“Well, that’s just the rules,” I stuttered.

She thought a moment.

“You don’t know much about the game, do you?” she said.

This fair-weather baseball fan could only look back, red-faced and speechless.

Struck out again.