New Lyrics, Alas: ‘Bleep Me Out of the Ballgame’

It seemed the perfect way to spend an August night. An old friend and former Orange County resident was in town and, lo and behold, he discovered that the Red Sox were playing our hometown Halos. A Bosox fan of 50 years standing, he suggested we take in some pennant-race baseball.

Being a fun-loving guy who would do anything for a friend’s happiness, I agreed.

Here’s how our Thursday night went:

We bought scalped tickets, and I reminded my buddy that Row L in Section 512 meant we’d be in the crow’s nest near the top of the ballpark.

Crow’s nest, indeed. Judging from the residue left on the seats, it appeared that a flock of crows actually had been using them in the last 24 hours.

No biggie. A handful of wet towels and some elbow grease later, and we settled in for a pleasant night in Southern California. Steve remembered his time in Orange County and how, just a decade or so ago, you could sit in the stadium and work a crossword puzzle without being disturbed by something as unnerving as the fans cheering.

By game’s end Thursday, however, he wondered where he was. Like if he was back in the Fenway Park in Boston he remembered from his youth, when potential danger always lurked in the bleachers.

Our immediate problem was a young woman in front of us, there with two young men, and all of whom looked to be in their 20s. She stood up, blocking our view, for the Angels’ leadoff hitter in the first inning. Her friends occasionally did likewise. An annoyance, but not a cardinal sin.

Their enthusiasm waxed and waned, until a point early in the game when, for no reason that either of us could determine, the woman yelled out a 10-letter obscenity that you don’t hear every day and certainly not in mixed company.

The outburst seemed unprovoked and directed at some unseen target, presumably a Red Sox fan. The crudity of it caught us off guard, but we shrugged.

A while later, she got the urge again. Same word, again without any provocation. But, this time, she caught the attention of a gaggle of Red Sox fans a few rows in front of her who figured she meant them. One or two of them returned the fire, but not as profanely, and to paraphrase an old joke, suddenly we were at a baseball game when a Jerry Springer show broke out.

The baiting continued. The young woman’s boyfriend, who hadn’t been openly antagonistic, found himself defending his lady’s honor and stood up to throw down the gauntlet to a young man from Red Sox Nation. They made the standard reference to meet under the stands, but nothing happened.

Shortly after, a couple of the Red Sox fans left their seats for the concession area and our young heroine again uncorked her favorite 10-letter epithet -- this time clearly at them, but adorning it with an obscene pantomime.

That moment passed without an exchange of gunfire. Pretty soon, a large guy in the Red Sox row had had enough and yelled up to the trio in front of us: “Shut the [bleep] up!”

It worked. The trio in front of us went stone silent. A couple innings later, the young man in front of us went down and shook hands with a few Sox fans.

Peace returned to Section 512.

However, a couple of the Sox fans weren’t there, so Angel Fan returned later to make up with them, too. One of them misinterpreted his movement toward them and splashed him with half a cup of beer.

We now had a brawl five rows in front of us. It lasted 30 seconds or so, before police eventually escorted the parties away. The threesome in front of us, including the woman who sparked the entire episode, eventually returned. The beer-splasher did not return to his seat.

Somewhere in all this a 2-1 ballgame was played. But instead of my buddy and I discussing thwarted rallies and stellar pitching, we pondered the carnage.

What compels someone to go to the ballpark on a summer’s night and hurl obscenities at strangers? And with such obliviousness as to whether children were in the vicinity (they were), not to mention people who plunked down good money to watch a ballgame? From what we could tell, no one in front of us was the least bit intoxicated.

Is it the Angels’ status as perennial contenders that stirs the passions? Is it that the team is a few games out of first place and running out of time? The intensity of a rivalry with one of the East Coast powers?

We knew we were giving her too much credit. The answer lay in some personality defect that, one hopes, gene therapy can someday eliminate.

The loudmouth severely tainted our night, but life goes on.

My friend left town the next day wondering what happened to the genteel Angel crowd of yore.

Me, I’ve got another buddy visiting next week, specifically to see his lifelong team, the Cincinnati Reds, play the Dodgers in an important series for both teams.

Oh boy. I can hardly wait.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. He can be reached at (714) 966-7821 or at dana

.parsons@latimes.com. An archive of his recent columns is at www.latimes.com/parsons.