Thursday, October 12, 2006
Draft #152
Miller Park
Now while you may be new and exciting, there are some areas in which you could use some improvement.
Mainly, I'm referring to the bleacher sections. What's up Miller Park? The bleachers are the section of a ballpark that should be reserved for the most raucous of fans and/or people who may not even be fans, but just like to drink the city's brew and shout obscenities for no apparent reason at all.
But what do I see out there whenever I decide to take in a ballgame from the bleachers? I see elderly ladies with canes eating 39-year-old bags of black licorice. I see families of five with their picnic baskets and drooling newborns. I see that retarded guy with the giant mustard stain on his brown trousers. Actually he's pretty cool. Stinky, as he is known to by his fanbase, can recite the original 13 colonies in reverse order while balancing on one leg. That may not sound very impressive, but bear in mind that Brewer games can be a bit monotonous and Stinky brings a lot to the table during those times when the opponents are beating the living tar out of the beloved Crew. I defy anyone to hold back a chuckle during the sparing moments when Stinky appears to have all but lost his balance, or during the occasions when an East or West Carolina brings the 13 colonies up to an unprecedented 14 or 15.
I see disgusting couples with their hands in each other's back pockets, whispering ugly nothings into each other's grotesquely shaped ears. I see entire 3rd grade classes that consists of kids who are more interested with what's coming out of their nose than what's happening on the field. For goober's sakes, I've even seen a collegiate-aged feller studying for an astronomy test while sitting in the bleachers.
Something has to give. I was never old enough to have the opportunity to drink in the bleachers at County Stadium, but I've heard the legend. The bleachers at County Stadium were a magical place where anything could happen, the possibilities were endless. Random kegs of beer sitting in the isles? As long as you were cheering for Ernie Riles. Would Rockin Robin ever throw you a wink? As long as when you barfed, you did it in the sink. Maybe even catch a dinger off the bat of the Ignitor? It's hard to catch with one hand while you're icing down your shiner. Any chance things could possibly get queer? Not while right field's being patrolled by the powerful Rob Deer. Was everyone really wasted and in a manic drunken stupor? Barely able to stand my friend, as they shouted, "Hooray for Cecil Cooper!!"
Rhyming aside, I long for the days when slaughtering a pig in the bleachers to make your own brats was socially acceptable. I long for the days when handing over your $5 for a confined one way bleacher ticket was the equivalent to putting your car keys in a fishbowl. I long for the days when an overly hairy chest and a fu manchu was a point of pride and something that helped you blend into a crowd. I long for the days when a section of fans could stand up in unison and simultaneously call the left fielder a douche bag without some old biddy telling them to mind their manners and take a seat. I long for the days when you could hurl a pretzel at an opposing team's outfielder, or hop the rail and go for a streak knowing your boys would bail you out of trouble.
I miss Bernie's beer mug. I miss the old PA announcer with the gravelly voice. I miss the ushers that didn't give a damn, so long as you didn't stab somebody with a screwdriver during his/her shift. I miss the feeling you'd get when you were walking on the path from the concourse to your section in the upper deck, you know, the one where you feel like a construction worker balancing on a high steel beam peering down at the lower grandstand. I miss the initial first peek of the field you'd get once you entered your section because you couldn't actually see it from the concourse. I miss the old uniforms and logo with the ball and mitt. I miss the old piece of crap scoreboard that hummed a thousand times louder than the sea green refrigerator sitting in your grandpa's basement. I miss ballplayers who were fueled by beer and burgers instead of growth hormones designed to strengthen horses. I miss the Marlboro man and guys named Moose Haas. But most importantly when looking at everything from a rational perspective, I missed the opportunity to write an article of this nature, about 4 or 5 years ago. But oh well, what are you going to do? Better late than never I guess. And hopefully someday the same can be said about the "real" fans eventual takeover of the bleachers.
Bleacher Creatures UNITE!!!
# posted by hucklebuck @ 10:39 AM 
