The Opening Day Fan

The glory of opening another season of baseball attendance, at least for this humble fan, is always tempered by the people around me. Beyond the bunting, pomp, circumstance, Navy Seal fly-ins, Air Force flyovers, and some unknown but "rising" recording artist stumbling his or her way through the National Anthem, there is one phenomena that always ruins this annual event for me. It's happened before. On both coasts. At Shea Stadium. And, yesterday, at Dodger Stadium.

It's called the Opening Day Fan. Obviously not exclusive to one coast. This person takes what should be a glorious day and turns into it either a homocidal or suicidal moment---depending upon which direction I want to take it.

The Opening Day Fan is not a baseball fan. He probably thinks that Andre Ethier is some French guy who invented anesthesia. He shows up once a year because, well, he can. He probably got tickets from his boss or his neighbor. He could care less about the game. He just wants to go because....well, like all lemings, everybody else is.

He doesn't know how to drive around the parking lot. (This was aggravated yesterday by the newly-reconstructed parking setup at Dodger Stadium, which was as well thought out as giving Stevie Wonder a plasma HDTV for Christmas.) He has no clue where he is. He stands on the concession line and then, once at the counter, doesn't know what to order. It's a baseball stadium, for Pete's sake. Don't canvas the menu looking for Mahi-Mahi!

And, yesterday, this guy was sitting behind me. He was with this woman who had to be his wife, since no other person would stay with him without the prospect of community property. All he did was talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. Not about baseball. They prattled on about anything but. The Sopranos premiere episode. Princess Cruises to Alaska. Wicked at the Pantages. Twelve Angry Men at the Ahmanson. Clinton vs. Obama. American Idol. 24. The price of tuition at UCLA. At one point, I wanted to turn around and ask if the sound of a Jason Schmidt 86 mph fastball hitting Russell Martin's glove was disturbing them.

And he ate peanuts. The shells wound up everywhere but in front of him. The aisle. One section over. My tote bag. Down my back. I felt like a buffet table at the elephant exhibit in the LA Zoo.

Oh, yes, they discussed baseball once. When Schmidt pulled a calf muscle and had to come out of the game in the fifth inning, he explained to his wife that reliever Mark Hendrickson had unlimited time to warm up as a result of the injury. Except his wife apparently didn't grasp this concept fully. Maybe she was too busy trying to decide what night to order tickets for Jersey Boys when it hits LA in July. He explained this baseball rule not once, not twice, but six times.

Around the seventh inning, he announced that, regardless of the score, they would stay to the end of the game. My head sank to my chest. I wondered if the concession stand had poison available. In a souvenir cup.

Of course, they left in the eighth. I think they saw the standing ovation I gave them as they sashayed up the aisle.

I can't wait for my next game. When the real fans show up.

By the way, did you know that when a pitcher is hurt in the game, his reliever has as much time as he wants to warm up?

Dinner last night: cheesesteak sandwich at the Cheesecake Factory.