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Great 'Spectations
Aug. 14th, 2006 03:25 pmObservations from the New York Mets-Washington Nationals game on Sunday, August 13:
J. and I, with our earlier plans having fallen through, decided on a whim to attend the 1:00 p.m. baseball game. Unfortunately it was 1:15 when we decided this, so we didn't even get to the RFK Metro station until nearly 2:00. Because we were arriving late, I was resigned to the prospect of crappy $7 general-admission seats, where we would surely bake in the hot sun if we didn't first collapse from vertigo. At the top of the escalator, however, we were presented with the option of scalped tickets – the refuge of the discriminating and morally flexible man.
All J. and I had to do was adjust our body language to appear interested and the scalpers flocked around us like we were Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. One large man thrust two tickets into my hand. "Right behind home plate," he said, without making eye contact, as his colleagues bemoaned his "marking" of us as his clients. I looked at the Section, which was 316, right behind home plate and under the awning. I was intrigued.
"How much?" I asked. Since I was okay with walking away in favor of cheap walk-up seats, and since the game was already one-third over, I felt I had the upper hand in the bargaining process.
"You tell me," he instructed, taking a consumer-friendly approach to negotiations.
I set my take-it-or leave it price, the amount of cash in my pocket. "Twenty-five dollars," I said confidently.
The man's countenance turned incredulous, then angry. I had clearly insulted his integrity as a salesperson. "Twenty five dollars!" he shouted. "Come on, man!" His pitch turned aggressive as he closed his distance on me, bringing my forehead to his chin. J. gripped my hand very tightly. The other independent ticket merchants scattered, like rats deserting a sinking boat.
I stood my ground. "Twenty-five is all I've got," I said. This was a lie. But $25 was face value, and it was all I was willing to spend. He hesitated, as he scanned the dwindling number of prospective buyers and I started walking away.
"Fine," he said. "Give me the $25." I pulled the two bills out of my pocket and two stray singles came out with it. This unfortunate revelation seemed to infuriate the man. My own trustworthiness as a client, while legally defensible, had been compromised. His tone indicated that his policy was to exact a modest penalty for excess withholding. "Shit, man, you got more than $25."
Behind us, a new throng of potential buyers was ascending the escalators. Whether he was dissuaded from the increasing number of onlookers or simply eager to complete our transaction, he grabbed the $27 from my hand as if he were Sylvester snatching Tweety Bird.
I felt victorious, not just because I was able to obtain decent seats at a moment's notice, but also because I had represented myself in a manly fashion during the exchange of goods. My pride only lasted until I saw the seats I had purchased.
They were at the very very back of the bottom level, only two rows away from the concourse. The whole field was visible, but within the deep recesses of the awning we could see only about five feet over the outfield fence, and we had to slouch to see the scoreboard. It was like watching the game from inside a clamshell.
Plus, we were right in the middle of a row. In a row 16 seats long, we had seats 12 and 13. See this rudimentary diagram:
(A)--X-00xxxxxxxxxxx(A)
The A's represent the aisles. The zeros represent our seats. The dashes represent empty seats. The little x's represent seats occupied by a large party of inveterate gamblers, who appeared to be taking wagers on events as miniscule as umpire scratching frequency. And the large X represents the morbidly obese old man taking up his seat and the two seats next to him, clutching a cane which I can only assume was composed of reinforced titanium.
J. went to get some refreshments before sitting down. I, meanwhile, tried to squeeze past the fat man into my seat, which would only have been easier with the help of an elaborate weight-and-pulley system. By the time J. got back with our hot dogs and sodas, I suggested that it would be easier for her to run the gauntlet of bettors, even if it meant them missing the inflatable president race. I tried to drink my beverage sparingly, so as to avoid the necessity of a trip to the bathroom.
There were a lot of New York Mets fans at the game. I'm not sure if there are simply that many New York transplants in the D.C. area, or if they all took an Acela train down here or what. But at certain pressure points in the game, we heard a spontaneous chant of "Let's Go Nats," which was roundly booed by Mets fans in the general vicinity. Either that, or we heard a spontaneous chant of "Let's Go Mets," then drowned out by the home crowd. It was very hard to tell. I have no doubt that many Mets fans stupidly joined in the Nats chant, and vice versa. I think if the people starting the chant knew how difficult it was to differentiate, they would have chosen something else. Like "Let's Go D.C.," or "I Love New York" or "Kiss My Pataki." (I think this last one works either way.)
Speaking of names, during the seventh inning stretch, after a vulgar rendition of that stupid "God Bless America" song, the crowd arose to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I almost always sing along, inserting "Red Wings" (as in Rochester) as the team that I root-root-root for, a meager shout-out to my hometown nine. But this time I decided not to sing, and I just listened to everyone else. It was not a particularly spirited crowd, but I still detected a real mish-mash of vocalizations when everyone was singing about their personal root-root-rooting interests. It seems to me that neither the name "Nationals" nor the nickname "Nats" is very conducive to insertion in the song. You either have to squish or stretch the name into two syllables – and that's if you're not totally flummoxed by your options in the first place. I think if I were running a baseball team, I'd make sure my team's name or nickname is two syllables, to increase crowd morale during the seventh-inning stretch. Thankfully, "The Douchebags" still qualifies under this new criterion.
Ultimately, the Nats blew the game, sending the Mets fans into a back-slapping frenzy. I was cheering for the home team, so it was a disappointing, if predictable, result. Maybe the gamblers next to us had the right idea. Maybe the only way to win as a Nats fan is to predict how the team is going to screw things up.
J. and I, with our earlier plans having fallen through, decided on a whim to attend the 1:00 p.m. baseball game. Unfortunately it was 1:15 when we decided this, so we didn't even get to the RFK Metro station until nearly 2:00. Because we were arriving late, I was resigned to the prospect of crappy $7 general-admission seats, where we would surely bake in the hot sun if we didn't first collapse from vertigo. At the top of the escalator, however, we were presented with the option of scalped tickets – the refuge of the discriminating and morally flexible man.
All J. and I had to do was adjust our body language to appear interested and the scalpers flocked around us like we were Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. One large man thrust two tickets into my hand. "Right behind home plate," he said, without making eye contact, as his colleagues bemoaned his "marking" of us as his clients. I looked at the Section, which was 316, right behind home plate and under the awning. I was intrigued.
"How much?" I asked. Since I was okay with walking away in favor of cheap walk-up seats, and since the game was already one-third over, I felt I had the upper hand in the bargaining process.
"You tell me," he instructed, taking a consumer-friendly approach to negotiations.
I set my take-it-or leave it price, the amount of cash in my pocket. "Twenty-five dollars," I said confidently.
The man's countenance turned incredulous, then angry. I had clearly insulted his integrity as a salesperson. "Twenty five dollars!" he shouted. "Come on, man!" His pitch turned aggressive as he closed his distance on me, bringing my forehead to his chin. J. gripped my hand very tightly. The other independent ticket merchants scattered, like rats deserting a sinking boat.
I stood my ground. "Twenty-five is all I've got," I said. This was a lie. But $25 was face value, and it was all I was willing to spend. He hesitated, as he scanned the dwindling number of prospective buyers and I started walking away.
"Fine," he said. "Give me the $25." I pulled the two bills out of my pocket and two stray singles came out with it. This unfortunate revelation seemed to infuriate the man. My own trustworthiness as a client, while legally defensible, had been compromised. His tone indicated that his policy was to exact a modest penalty for excess withholding. "Shit, man, you got more than $25."
Behind us, a new throng of potential buyers was ascending the escalators. Whether he was dissuaded from the increasing number of onlookers or simply eager to complete our transaction, he grabbed the $27 from my hand as if he were Sylvester snatching Tweety Bird.
I felt victorious, not just because I was able to obtain decent seats at a moment's notice, but also because I had represented myself in a manly fashion during the exchange of goods. My pride only lasted until I saw the seats I had purchased.
They were at the very very back of the bottom level, only two rows away from the concourse. The whole field was visible, but within the deep recesses of the awning we could see only about five feet over the outfield fence, and we had to slouch to see the scoreboard. It was like watching the game from inside a clamshell.
Plus, we were right in the middle of a row. In a row 16 seats long, we had seats 12 and 13. See this rudimentary diagram:
(A)--X-00xxxxxxxxxxx(A)
The A's represent the aisles. The zeros represent our seats. The dashes represent empty seats. The little x's represent seats occupied by a large party of inveterate gamblers, who appeared to be taking wagers on events as miniscule as umpire scratching frequency. And the large X represents the morbidly obese old man taking up his seat and the two seats next to him, clutching a cane which I can only assume was composed of reinforced titanium.
J. went to get some refreshments before sitting down. I, meanwhile, tried to squeeze past the fat man into my seat, which would only have been easier with the help of an elaborate weight-and-pulley system. By the time J. got back with our hot dogs and sodas, I suggested that it would be easier for her to run the gauntlet of bettors, even if it meant them missing the inflatable president race. I tried to drink my beverage sparingly, so as to avoid the necessity of a trip to the bathroom.
There were a lot of New York Mets fans at the game. I'm not sure if there are simply that many New York transplants in the D.C. area, or if they all took an Acela train down here or what. But at certain pressure points in the game, we heard a spontaneous chant of "Let's Go Nats," which was roundly booed by Mets fans in the general vicinity. Either that, or we heard a spontaneous chant of "Let's Go Mets," then drowned out by the home crowd. It was very hard to tell. I have no doubt that many Mets fans stupidly joined in the Nats chant, and vice versa. I think if the people starting the chant knew how difficult it was to differentiate, they would have chosen something else. Like "Let's Go D.C.," or "I Love New York" or "Kiss My Pataki." (I think this last one works either way.)
Speaking of names, during the seventh inning stretch, after a vulgar rendition of that stupid "God Bless America" song, the crowd arose to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I almost always sing along, inserting "Red Wings" (as in Rochester) as the team that I root-root-root for, a meager shout-out to my hometown nine. But this time I decided not to sing, and I just listened to everyone else. It was not a particularly spirited crowd, but I still detected a real mish-mash of vocalizations when everyone was singing about their personal root-root-rooting interests. It seems to me that neither the name "Nationals" nor the nickname "Nats" is very conducive to insertion in the song. You either have to squish or stretch the name into two syllables – and that's if you're not totally flummoxed by your options in the first place. I think if I were running a baseball team, I'd make sure my team's name or nickname is two syllables, to increase crowd morale during the seventh-inning stretch. Thankfully, "The Douchebags" still qualifies under this new criterion.
Ultimately, the Nats blew the game, sending the Mets fans into a back-slapping frenzy. I was cheering for the home team, so it was a disappointing, if predictable, result. Maybe the gamblers next to us had the right idea. Maybe the only way to win as a Nats fan is to predict how the team is going to screw things up.
