As far back as I can remember my Dad’s taken me to Seattle Mariner’s baseball games. For a couple bucks, he’d pick up a program and a pencil and I’d be entertained for hours with hand scoring base hits, unswung strikeouts, and runs during the game.
This is back during the Kingdome days when being a Mariner’s fan felt good; the city was electrified by Randy Johnson’s strike outs, with Edgar Martinez’s eagle eye on the strike zone and with Ken Griffey Jr.’s million dollar swings for the fences.
If you can believe it, I also have fond memories of the peanut guy. He threw behind the back zingers from an aisle away and they always landed right on target. And of the nights when free entries to the game went to anyone that buzzed their head to commemorate the then bald right fielder Jay Buhner.
I’m at the game today, the first major league game my daughter Evelyn’s attended.
It’s the top of the 6th inning and I can’t wait to see her face when the entire stadium stands to sing the song that up until today has only been at sung at home with her dad and I.
“Take me out to the ball game, take me out to the crowd…Cause it’s one, two, three strikes yer out at the old game.”
She’s in bed and all tuckered out from a day of firsts. And it was all perfect, every single bit of it. Creating memories like these is what it’s all about.