I was still in college the last time the Orioles won the American League East. I had just started my sophomore year, to be more specific. It’s hard to believe, but 1997 was the year before I met Crystal. That was the year after Brady Anderson hit 50 home runs and the Orioles became the first team in Major League Baseball history to have every member of their starting lineup hit at least 20 home runs. 1997 was also the season before “Miss Lois” gave Timmy and me two free box seat tickets to Oriole Park at Camden Yards, tickets she had scored from work. Those tickets would become the basis for this post—and maybe even whatever you’d call my writing career since then.
See, the summer of 1997 was also three semesters before Dr. Rand unearthed a kind of writing in me that would eventually define my narrative style: the personal essay. I sucked at fiction—still do. (Maybe related: outside of a children’s book, I don’t think I’ve read a fiction book since college.) I was just learning to write about my own life journey. In the Advanced Creative Writing class that was offered every fourth semester, I took this essay to Dr. Rand as a draft. She read it, complimented it, told me it needed an ending, and then asked me the question that would change how I write: “What’s the point?” She asked this far more eloquently and gently than how it got reduced in my memory. She was great like that. Long story short, the answer to that question was the last, short paragraph of this piece—and the last paragraph or two of every blog post I’ve written since then.
I’ll Take My Dreams With Extra Mustard
I reached down to grab Timmy’s hand, as we hiked from our car in section G of the Camden Yards parking lot. His arms cradled all of the necessary equipment for watching a professional baseball game—his black Little League glove, a water bottle filled with lemonade, and a bag of roasted peanuts—but he rearranged his cargo to free a hand to hold mine. I continually adjusted my steps to those of someone as tall as my 3 o’clock shadow, as we maneuvered up the sidewalk dotted with heckling peanut men toward the south turnstiles. We waded through the sellout crowd that, like us, had yet to reach their seats. I stretched and scrunched Timmy’s arm to avoid people and other obstacles that he saw at a belt-buckle level.
I counted out loud the section numbers as we passed the tunnels that led out to the lower box seats. I wonder how many times we looked at those prized box-seat tickets—maybe to see if they were still real, maybe to record forever their perforated, zip-printed faces.
“What section are we in?” I asked for conversation’s sake.
“Sixty-four, double m,” escaped from a face that floundered to catch all of the subterranean stadium sights.
All at once Timmy broke out, “The Oriole bird! The Oriole bird! Look—over there! Can we go see him?” Thankfully, the human-stuffed mascot found no room on the elevator to the skybox terrace. We slid into the elevator atrium, and Timmy inched over next to the bird, trying not to be whapped by an orange felt tail. I dropped to one knee under the weight of Timmy’s load and mine. Fumbling, I clicked a picture of a boy’s dreams and hair being fluffed up by a black nylon hand.
“Emily will not believe this,” Timmy informed me, “I’m glad we got a picture!”
“Me, too: that’s like getting hugged by Mickey in Disney World!”
Out in our seats, we took turns with the bag of peanuts; my turns were longer than his. We traded my camera back and forth, using its zoom lens as a monocular. He found his favorite player, and I found mine. “You can take a picture of Cal, if you want to,” I told him, “Just don’t drop it, okay?”
I slipped the neck strap over his head, holding the camera by its lens. “Wait until he gets into his stance . . . make sure you can see ‘Ripken’ on his back,” I instructed. Timmy’s dusty fingers twisted the Cyclops eye until his hero came into focus. The trembling lens froze long enough for the camera to release its click-zoot and for Timmy to capture a dream.
The Orioles had batted twice when a garpled voice behind me called, “Young man, young man.” I twisted in my seat to find a man with silver hair and gnarled fingers gesturing with a brimming box of popcorn.
“You wanta share this with your little friend, there?” Astonished—”You don’t want it?”
“Nah. I couldn’t eat all of this.”
“Timmy, d’ya want some popcorn,” I whispered into my little friend’s ear.
“No. I’ve got peanuts.”
I turned and thanked the stranger but refused his offer. Then Timmy mumbled, “I guess I could eat some popcorn,” so I turned and told the stranger that we had reconsidered.
“Here, Timmy.” His two hands replaced my one on the carton. I soon took it back, so that he could put his glove back on. “Just in case,” I said, adding, “This side gets more fouls.”
The next inning, we moved two sections to our right—closer to home plate—upon meeting the owners of seats sixty-six double m. “Uh, Timmy, We’ve gotta move; say thank you to the old man for the popcorn.” He obeyed.
The old man gave us two nods with his smile. “Oh, you’re welcome!”
Our new seats were not yet warm when Timmy declared how he wanted to spend August’s allowance. “I want a hot dog. I still have eight dollars left.”
“Tell ya what,” I said, “Wait until the fifth or sixth inning. When the hot dog girl comes around, I’ll flag her down for ya. Sound good?” He nodded. I listened to myself. I heard a parent, maybe an older brother; they excel at postponing fun.
When the hot dog girl bounced down the steps two sections over, Timmy immediately notified me of both the inning and her whereabouts. I let him go. As he maneuvered through the adults, I followed his black Orioles cap with the camera. When he found the hot dog girl, she was juggling greenbacks and mustard, quarters and franks, napkins and relish. He stood silently, a few steps above her, with a five-dollar bill extended toward her silver box. After a minute or so, she saw her seven-year-old customer and pulled out a steaming frank. She squirted on the toppings according to his nods. He returned to his seat with two hands holding the bun near his chest, as though it were the holy grail.
After a negotiation similar to the one on the pitcher’s mound—the kind where the pitcher tells the manager that he can get the next batter out—Timmy sped to the bathroom. I tried to watch the game instead of the terrace tunnel. His mom had told me not to let him out of my sight, but I had to stick with my pitcher. He worked himself out of the jam—with clean hands, no less!
When the eighth inning came and the front row yuppies left, we trotted down for a field-level view. Timmy was still waiting for that foul ball. He asked the ball girl across the railing if she had caught any foul grounders. “Not yet—not tonight,” she answered politely. The game ended, and all he had caught were pictures. I handed the ball girl the camera and asked for a picture, one last memory of the night.
The crowds thinned down to a trickle, and we started for the terrace tunnel. Then a uniformed man with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder hollered for Timmy’s attention. I turned to see him flip Timmy a baseball—grass stains, dirt scuffs and all. After stuttered thanks, we stared at it for a while as if it were a winning lottery ticket.
“You don’t play batting practice with this one, Tim. Put it in your glove, so you don’t drop it on the way to the car.” There I had to go again, spoiling the moment, spoiling all of the fun.
It was past his bedtime now; it was past mine, too. The clock in the car glowed with the green numbers that spelled midnight. Following the trafficker’s flares, I pulled into the river of taillights.
In the silence, Timmy’s mind must have wandered from the game and to his brother’s coming departure for college. “I’m gonna miss you,” he said slowly, looking at his new ball and then out his window.
“I’ll miss you, too, kid,” I returned almost softly. And in the night eyes of my sidekick I saw a flicker—the falling star I had wished upon for a brother of my own.
