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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: DScottD who wrote (11186)	6/23/1998 8:09:00 PM
From: Ish	Respond to of 71178

Yeh, my dad was in the men's clothing business 57 years. H,S & M had the seats at Comisky. I remember Yogi ran funny rounding third and a pop foul went to the moon. Used to be bus trips from here to Wrigley and Busch but that was a while back. Big tubs of beer floating in ice water. Guys playing cards and smoking cigars. Made a kid feel good to go along but now that isn't PC.

To: DScottD who wrote (11186)	6/28/1998 3:11:00 PM
From: Rambi	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 71178

WHY MY HUSBAND DOESN"T LET ME BE THE OFFICIAL SCOREKEEPER AT BASEBALL GAMES or WHY SHOULD THAT BE AN ERROR? HE TRIED SO HARD TO CATCH IT! Any mother who uncomplainingly sits through game after baseball game in 100 plus Texas weather should be cherished and praised. She should not be jeered because she is incapable of keeping the scorebook according to some arbitrary male ideas of right and wrong. I tried, I did. And I think I did a pretty good job. I mean, it's just a game, c'mon. It happened one afternoon when our usual statistics maven and official book keeper didn't make the game. My husband, the coach, handed me the book and a pen and said I would have to do it. Well, sure, I'd been watching games for ten years. How hard could this be? There were even instructions in the front of the book. "Piece of cake," I said. It looked easy enough. You mark the balls and strikes and if they hit the ball you make a line where they run. If they come home you fill in the little diamond. Why do men make such a big deal about this stuff? The coach of the other team comes over and hands me his lineup; it's barely legible. I hand him my list, neatly printed in calligraphy. He is unimpressed. "There's no position 27," he says. I had interchanged the positions and player numbers. Big deal. He didn't have to roll his eyes as he walked away. The game starts. We are up to bat first. This is easy. 2 balls, a strike, a hit. Player on first. Next batter strikes out. I even remember to make the K backwards. The player on first steals. It was close. His mother moans. "What's wrong? He was safe." I say. "I know, but look at those pants. I'll never get that dirt out." "Have you tried that new detergent with the nonbleach whitener?" I ask. "I've had good luck with that." Another mom says, "It didn't work for me at all." A cheer goes up. I look at the field. There's a player on third now, one on first, and one stomping away from the plate. "What happened?" I ask a dad. "Joe struck out." I look for Joe and quickly mark the strikes and make a K. I don't want to ask about the one before that and appear as if I weren't paying attention so I just put the runner on first and give him a base hit. The next batter gets a single. Third comes home. I carefully fill in the little box, I was always very good at staying within the lines and I want to make my husband proud. The next player flies out to center. End of inning. The bottom of the first goes quickly. I turn the book over to our side again. Halfway through the inning, a dad leans over and asks me what's the count. 3-1, I say casually, but with pride. I'm on top of this. He looks at the book. "Isn't this the second inning?" he says. "Yup." He can't trick me. Of course it is. "You're recording in the first inning column." He's right. And I can't erase. I carefully copy it over to the next column and then X out the first inning mistakes. When I look up, the inning is over, but I show only one out. I make up some stuff. By the end of the fourth inning, I have gained confidence. The only problem I have is when our right fielder loses a ball in the sun. "That's an error,' says a dad. "He didn't do it on purpose," I say. "He missed it. He should have had that. It was a can of corn." (Is that a silly expression or what?) "But it wasn't his fault. The sun blinded him!" The dad rolls his eyes at me. I ignore him and mark it a base hit. These are kids, for heaven's sake. I don't want to injure their self-esteem. I take a break to get out my Mister Fan and spray myself. When I look down it's leaked and the first inning is dripping bluely down the page. I blot it as best I can. At the end of the game, the score seems to be 6-4, our favor. My husband comes over and takes the book. "How'd you do?" "Creamed corn." I say. He looks at me oddly. How many pitches did Bobby throw?" he asks. "How would I know?" I say. He opens the book and looks. "Penni, why did you stop writing down the balls and strikes?" "Well the book was getting all messy and it really didn't seem important. They either got on base or they didn't. That's all there." "What is all this writing?" he squints at the page. "You know, they really need to make those squares bigger." I complain. I look over his shoulder. "That says, 'Joe tagged the runner between second and third'. I didn't know what it was called. And that says 'Bobby hit the batter in the side.' My husband nods and closes the book. I say eagerly, "It was really fun! Do you think I could do it again next week?" I have some exciting ideas about making the book more attractive, maybe using colored pencils for different things--green for strikes, red for those backward Ks. My husband looks at me. "I don't think so, honey, but thanks so much." Bobby comes up. "Coach? did you get that total?" He puts his arm on Bobby's shoulders and they walk away. I hear him mutter, "Don't ask."