Nothing drives a baseball fan to the morning drink
quite like a 1 o’clock start time. Nothing drives a Pirates fan to sheer lunacy
quite like the local baseball club. Combine a 1 o’clock start time for a
Pirates game in which a fan protest is due after the first half of the third
inning, what results is a recipe for an immense disturbance.
Truthfully, some of the details regarding the
so-called third inning walkout are sketchy, even those consistent with the
timeline pre-inebriation. I can’t recall if Adam had somehow learned of the
protest first, or myself.
All I know for certain is that the mangy Pirates were
within the throes of a 15th straight losing season, and Adam grew a
moustache for the event. “Pirates fans are getting out of their seats during the
third inning to protest this depraved team. Totally dope! Grow a moustache.” When
the day of demonstration had arrived, his upper lip was tasked with supporting
the weight of something akin to a sideways Old Fezziwig mutton chop. As a
Pirates fan himself, I suspected his moustache’s egregious bulk represented his
burden of perennial crestfallenness.
Despite my admittedly meek facial hair, in
comparison, I too was eager to exhibit my disapproval with Pirates management. In
the week preceding I’d been practicing getting up and simply walking out of
various high-impact situations: conferences at work, the subsequent sit-down
with my boss after walking out of a conference at work, and a funeral. I didn’t
want to risk being unpracticed in the ways of walking out, and spoil my one
opportunity to chastise Team President Kevin McClatchy, General Manager David
Littlefield and the Nutting ownership group. Hey Ho! I was going to be amongst
the throng of fans abandoning their seats at PNC Park like it was nobody’s
business. Pirates’ brass would be so aghast at the blizzard of disenchantment
they’d respond in kind by tripling the payroll and bequeathing the city a
winning baseball team.
I think that was the plan anyway. I was woozy from
cheap beer by time the 11am 56-E bus picked us up in Greenfield, heading for
PNC Park. Adam had suds in his a moustache.
Upon arriving on the North Side—rather than posing
with Roberto Clemente’s statue or chasing the Canadian geese on the river
walk—we continued the foolhardy exploits of typical twenty-somethings and sought
more alcohol to funnel to ours brains’ pleasure centers. Finnegan’s Wake was
the bar of choice, being only the distance between a right fielder and his
cutoff man from the ball field. We perched
ourselves outside on the humid cloudless day—a perfect day for a protest. We
hunkered down again. Our merriment was fueled with each sip. Adam’s moustache
grew due to the combination of direct sunlight and Pabst fertilizer.
A half an hour until first pitch a man appeared an
adjacent corner advertising tee shirts he yanked from a cardboard box. He
announced his wares like a peanut vendor. A fellow lugging a news camera on his shoulder
trailed. The odd spectacle lured us. The numerous squares embossed into our
asses from prolonged exposure to wrought iron patio seats no sooner vanished
than the peddler stuffed our five bucks apiece in his pocket. The shirts were an
intense snot-colored yellow like the business end of a firefly or a crossing
guard’s loungewear. The message on the front was bold and black “I SUPPORT THE
THIRD INNING WALK-OUT.” The shirts were almost gaudy enough to draw attention
from Adam’s moustache.
***
“You’re gonna’ mow ‘em down today, Morton,” I yelled
into the bullpen. The security guard chastised me for leaning over the brick
wall beside the batter’s eye, and motivating the starting pitcher. Adam’s
‘stache flared in defiance causing the guard to gasp and back away. We shuffled
through the crowds in the runaways, our no-nonsense neon shirts proclaiming our
intentions. We eyed a few other patrons sporting the shirts; we sensed our
moment was fast approaching. A couple more Busch pounders prepared us for the
impending glory.
The first two innings rolled by without fanfare.
When the third out was recorded in the top of the third I expected several
thousand of the near capacity crowd to stand in unison and march from their
seats, or blitz the Pirate Parrot and curb stomp his beak into second base.
Instead, only a few others in our section rose: a boy holding his ding-dong in
lieu of a good whiz and a guy who says to his wife, he says “So dat’s two ice
creams, nachos supreme and a diet pop, huh?” These were not fans so enraged by 15
years of crummy baseball so much as families picnicking at a professional
baseball game. Adam and I stumped away from our seats regardless. Adam’s
moustache became engorged with rage at the utter lack of raw outward disgust
with Pirate’s management.
The runways were eerily quiet. A tumble weed rolled
by the Primanti Bros entrance. One idle soul with a television camera
intercepted us while we wandered in the concessionary wasteland. “Can I ask you
a question?” he asked. Besides the fact
that he already had, I allowed him. “Why are you here?”
My surroundings faded and I suddenly sensed at
though I was alone with St. Peter at the gate and he’d just asked me why I
should be allowed to enter—an answer one prepares since their first sin. I certainly
can’t recall my exact drunken response of juxtaposed metaphors but I’ll
paraphrase: “Evolution is tasked with constantly seeking perfection. It will
never succeed. It can never succeed. But
sometimes evolution swats a middle-in fastball on the meaty part of the bat and
produces a biological juggernaut like the mosquito, the hammerhead shark or the
Yankees. The remainder of species is game unless they develop the means to
compete. Mosquito repellant or a spear gun will not stall the mighty Yankees. A
pitcher rolling sevens through nine innings or a lineup of common feeders
having career nights in a fell swoop might overcome The Empire on any given
Thursday night in the middle of August. But ultimately, teams that ain’t the damned
Yankees are doomed over a full season. You can’t defeat the Yankees by throwing
haymakers; you need to sneak up from behind firing a submachine gun and hope
the bullets shred enough vital organs before they lunge. But the sneak attack
must be deft, for if the Yanks hear whispering in the bushes the massacre will
turn your face pale and your hair white. Opposing teams require not only shrewd
strategists to design such a nimble attack but a commander-in-chief willing to
sacrifice the means necessary. If Kevin McClatchy and Dave Littlefield were shepherds
they’d rashly lead their flock into a werewolf caucus, and Bob Nutting would be
too cheap to waste a single silver bullet in defense. Nutting understands that
you can always breed more sheep as long as people pay to watch the slaughter.
Why am I doing this? I’m doing this because I’m sick of evolution tightening
the noose and then kicking the blocks season after season after season. It’s
high time we grab the repellant, the spear gun and silver bullets and draw up
the ambush. Evolution be damned. When McClatchy, Littlefield and Nutting are
themselves hung for their crimes, a new Pirates regime will outwit thee. Team
like the Yankees will fall. The Pirates will reign again. And I’m sure all
these people here would agree with me.”
At that moment I turned to face PNC Park, motioning
to the killing floor. I was greeted with the collective uproar of a troupe of
fellow protesters—a triumphant way to punctuate such incoherent discourse.
Little had I known Adam had gathered wandering walkouts and directed them to
wait behind my back in anticipation of my call to action. To these poor people,
my neon snot-colored shirt surely must have appeared like a faraway lighthouse beacon
when shipwreck seemed inevitable. Adam did well. When the crowd began pumping
their fists in unison at the notion of drawing their swords against evolution,
I caught a glimpse of Adam. He stood stoically, his arms crossed and his eyes
beaming. I swear, the sunshine reflected off his moustache and cast a majestic blonde
glow over us that felt to me like a protective orb instilling tranquility to
the battle-ready soldiers it enveloped.
The revelry gradually damped as the rabble-rousers
began to disperse. However, one fellow with lingering awe in his eyes
approached me and asked “Are you the guy who started this?” I told him I
wasn’t, but he was devoted to my cause anyway. Then he asked me what I planned
to do next. I said I wanted to go back to my seat and watch the rest of the
game.
Since the dramatic
climax passed, the day’s remainder consisted of further debauchery leading to
more gross missteps than Pirates’ base runners amid a twilight doubleheader.
For the sake of posterity, the missteps include: spilling my beer on a boy
scout’s Bob Walk bobblehead (I gave the boy mine), posing for snapshots with wild-eyed transients at a downtown bus stop, me standing up on the bus and tumbling on to a
hapless lady rider when the bus negotiated a turn, and puking in the rancid
bathroom of the local dive bar sometime around last call.
I SUPPORT THE THIRD INNING WALK-OUT.
