Cheer, and Boo, and Raise a Hullabaloo

Fresh cut grass, hops and barley, ketchup and relish, mustard and onions. Echoes of crack and smack. Ambient noise of thousands talking, singing, chanting, yelling. The excitement in the pit of your stomach, keeps you uneasy and nervous. Deep down, you feel like a kid again. You walk to the end of the cement where the edge meets the stairs, and the view is definitive. You're overwhelmed. The green, tan and blue all vibrant and crisp. Brace yourself, it's Opening Day.

The crowds shift by as if no single person exists, but only globs of young boys on dads shoulders, old men with headphones on and programs in hand. Your attention returns to the beautiful sights and sounds of specs bending over and scooping up balls rolling towards them. One takes off fast from the foul line towards center field, and then as if someone, no one, calls to him to stop and turn around He complies.

It's all smiles today. Clean slate for all who are involved. Expectations un-tattered, still true and hopeful. The hustle and bustle of a man with carrying a satchel full of peanuts, counting money in one hand, and tossing a bag in another, seems near poetic. Your buddies walk up and hand you a beer. It's a good time for friends and family, you make your way to your seats. You slowly move down the steps, trying to take it all in. You reach your seat, hard and plastic, but comfortable and caressing.

It's the first game of the season. One game in a season is so insignificant, and at the same time one game in a season, very significant. This one is the start of it all. There are old timers to your left and right and young kids to your front and back, both sitting on the edge of their seats, watching so intently you wouldn't know that there was anything else in the world. A view of the past and future, despite age, one in the same. It's the best day of the year. Early April, springtime. A time of new beginnings, promise, growth, and most importantly Baseball.

The stadium is in pristine untouched condition. The grass, each blade cut and bent perfectly to give the look of a nature synchronized dance. The clay of the infield, watered and sunned perfectly, so that every step releases the smell of the dampness that infiltrates your nose. The mound some kind of perfect sculpture in the center of it all.

The team takes the field and the anticipation is overwhelming. The opposing batter steps into the batters box. The sweet ballet the pitcher performs ends with a violent explosion of motion and blur of a white object moving straight and true towards home plate. SMACK! "STIIIRIKE ONE," the umpire yells as he performs his own routine with a twist and point of his arm, fluently enough as not to disturb the dust that still floats from the catchers mitt. Baseball season is upon us.

By the forth inning I've stuffed 2 or 3 Dodger dogs down my gullet, washed them down with beer, and am on to shelling peanuts and dropping them to my feet. The entire experience is like no other game will be that year. The stats up on the jumbo-tron are only of today's events. It's the only game that their season stats will be their game stats. CRACK! I almost wasn't watching, but the hush and gasp that the entire stadium took gave me warning. Everyone holds their breath. There's no air, and the pin dropping is heard. My body starts to move before I tell it too. It lingers between sitting and standing, and my eyes pick up the ball, but then back to the fielder giving chase, and back to the ball. I leap from my seat in sheer jubilee and out of control. The intensity of the silence finally fails and the roar of excitement consumes this sanctuary. It's the only time in your life you'll high five a complete stranger. Martin just hit one out of the park, and chaos ensues. It takes him awhile to get around the bases, and even longer for the crowd to settle. Even after the next batter strikes out and the inning ends, the disbelief of witnessing such an unbelievably believable event still grips the crowd.

There's a buzz that continues through the crowd. The guy next to you in line for beer stands proud and in a world of triumph. The kid tossing up a baseball and catching it, he feels it too. The end of the game nears, and the excitement is still prevalent. The blue makes a bad call on a close play. Yes he was safe, but not to our hearts. He'll probably think twice about it, with the constant heckling he's getting now from the hostile crowd. The bottom of the ninth comes and it's a close game. Anxiety and fear have now drawn over the crowd. The crowd is at its peak level of loudness. No remorse for this ex town hero, a traitor by all accounts. The tying run is on second and there are two outs. The crowd is uneasy and stirring. The guy next to me launches his beer at another fan wearing the opponents jersey. The two and two pitch is called strike three, game over. In that instant no one seems to know that they were just in a putrid mood. Joy is brought on by roaring, clapping, whistling, and high fiving. Celebratory fireworks crack off and life can't be any better.

The ride home is spent listening to how they did it, how they won the game. You reach home still exuberant. You won, your team won, what a great day for a ball game.

"It's a beautiful day for a home run, but even a triples okay"