I ordered a hot dog, a giant pretzel, a bottle of water, and a bag of peanuts before finding my friend and heading back to our seats. A baseball game really isn't complete without a hot dog or two and a bag of peanuts. I finished the hot dog pretty quickly, but my friend and I didn't empty that bag of peanuts until around one in the morning, as we were leaving the ballpark. At that point, the concourses were practically empty, and the walkway leading down from the upper deck seating to ground level was inhabited solely by the two of us. It looked as if the walkway had already been cleaned: There was no trash, no bottles or wrappers lying around, so I hope the two us casually dropping empty peanut shells as we scarfed down the last of what remained in the bag didn't cause too much of a mess.
When we got to the train station, a north-bound train had already arrived, and my friend had the brilliant idea of trying to make it to the front car, which happened to be a few hundred feet away from the stairs we had just descended from. Naturally, we ran along the platform up to towards the front car, only for the doors to close and the train to depart before we reached that particular car. I don't particularly care which subway car I ride in, but my friend seems to prefer the very first one. And so we wound up defeated, out of breath and sweaty, waiting for the next train to arrive.
It's odd to see a train station so empty after a sporting event. I've been to tons of baseball and football games, and every time the nearest station is always packed to the brim with fans heading home. People are usually packed along the sides, and there's always a mad dash to enter the subway cars once a train arrives. You have to be smart about how you board one of these trains: Try to get in first, and you might wind up stuck in the middle of a packed car, with little room to stand. You'll have to do a whole lot of fighting through the crowd of people to get to the door when your stop arrives. Go too late, and you're either smashed up against a bunch of people and the door, or you miss the train altogether because it's too packed.
But this night wasn't like that. There were only a few thousand fans left at the game when it finally ended, and so the nearby train station wasn't even half-filled. The last time I was waiting for a train at this station, I saw a mouse scrambling around near the tracks. He kept poking around the layer of rocks that lay underneath the rails, but I didn't seem him on this night.
About ten minutes later, another north-bound train made its way into the station, and we managed to get on to the first car, presumably to the delight of my friend. It's not a very long ride back to the station that nearest to my apartment, and it just so happens that my friend and I live close enough that we're only one stop apart, so neither of us had to take a long journey alone. When my friend's stop arrived, I shook his hand and wished him well in his second year of college. My stop, of course, came next, and after walking two blocks made it back to my apartment in one piece, collapsing into bed around two.
I've been to about 50 baseball games in my life, and my friend's probably been to about 100 baseball games. I've visited four different Major League ballparks, and my friend's been to a dozen. In all that time, we've seen our fair share of exciting, rare, boring, painful, memorable, and truly fun moments. Baseball is, in a way, like a box of chocolates (to steal a phrase). Together, the two of have gone to 150 baseball games, and every single one of the them was unique in some way. We've seen walk-offs, back-to-back home runs, diving catches, amazing throws, Cy Young winners, MVPs, future Hall of Famers, you name it.
I've been to four baseball games this year, none of them very remarkable. Two were White Sox games, two were Cubs games. The Sox managed to win both of their games, and the Cubs were able to win the second game I went to. This particular game, the second White Sox game, wasn't exactly the game of the century. The Sox kept blowing every single lead they had managed to gain. At one point, they walked in the tying run. Three times the Sox wasted triples by leaving the runners stranded on third. Another time they loaded the bases with one out and failed to score. On the Indians' side, their star pitcher was giving up hits left and right. And though they kept managing to tie it up, the Indians could never gain a lead.
The Sox managed to blow the lead in the top of the ninth inning, and then proceeded to put the winning run in scoring position with less than two outs in the bottom of the ninth, only to leave him stranded. Extra innings is always fun because its brings along a sense of unstructured uncertaintly. Normally you expect a baseball game to go nine innings, and that seems to happen about 99 percent of the time. But when we get into extras, it's kind of freeing because all bets are off. There's no set end point, no ties, no sudden death elimination. If we have to go 26 innings to settle a game, we'll go 26 innings.
As the game wore on and plunged deeper into extra innings, both sides began to run out of pitchers, and neither offense was could do anything useful with a bat. I'm not sure which is worse: Sloppy play on the field or futility at the plate, but the latter definitely was painful to witness in this game. I'm sure that most of the people who had been watching the game at home had turned it off by now, tired of seeing this rather pathetic excuse for a baseball game. The stadium, which was only about half full at the start of the game, had only a few thousand fans remaining, with more leaving after every half inning of play during extras.
My friend and I moved up to the first row of our section, as the ballpark was nearly empty. By this point it was well past midnight, and we figured that only the diehards and the Indians fans who traveled all the way to Chicago to see the game were sticking around to see the end of this pitiful thing. Our section, which at one point consisted of mostly White Sox fans, was now made up of about two dozen people, many of whom were Indians fans, including me. (To be clear: I'm a Cubs fan and my friend's a Sox fan. I went to the game to spend some time with my friend, and root against the Sox, of course.)
The 7th inning stretch is a baseball tradition. Everyone knows the words to "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" by the time they're ten years old, and knows to shout their favorite team at the appropriate moment. It's such a famous piece of Americana that when I was in China, it was the song that my travel mates and I chose to teach out host family after being given the task to help them learn a song in English. It has a simple melody, the lyrics aren't too wordy, and practically anyone can sing it, regardless of their vocal range.
It also seems to come at the perfect time. You might thing that the middle of the 5th inning, the halfway mark of a 9-inning ballgame, would be a better spot. But that'd feel too early, in the sense that both not enough baseball's been played and that there's too much baseball left to be played. The 6th inning also doesn't quite work. You're still getting a sense of what the game's like. And the 8th inning? Way too late; the game's nearly over. But the middle of the 7th? By this time, you've watched enough baseball to get a good sense of how the game's gone, and although more than half the game has gone by, there's still a decent amount of baseball yet to be played.
My friend and I sang along to the 7th inning stretch, our arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, swaying to the tempo of the organist who accompanied the rest of the stadium. It's one of the few times when rival fans can join together, except, of course, for the "root, root root for the ___" part. When we were done singing and stretching, we sat back down to watch the bottom half of the inning. A few hours later, the two of us stood up again and sang "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" for a second time. It wasn't because we were bored, or because we wanted to pass the time after running all the way down station platform and just missing our train. We sang it again because it was the middle of the 14th inning, and an encore was demanded.
Few baseball games make it to extra innings, and fewer still make it to 14 innings. That makes the 14th inning stretch a rare event. In fact, this happened to be the first time that either of us got to take part in the 14th inning stretch, and keep in mind that we've been to about 150 games, collectively. And for all the poor performances on the field that night by the two teams, the 14th inning stretch made the entire night worth it, for some reason. I think what I liked most about it is just how absurd the concept is. "It's been another seven innings of baseball, so let's sing it again!" It's kind of utterly ridiculous (in a good way) to do it over, but it does seem to reflect the ridiculousness of the game at hand: Here you are in the 14th inning, both teams are refusing to win the stupid game, and it's very likely that that this game will go on for another 14 innings. It's like a reward for stick around to witness all this awful baseball.
The final out of the 13th inning was probably the most excited I was all night simply because it guaranteed that this ridiculous yet wonderful event would take place, and I would get to be there to take part in it. The top of the 14th went by quickly enough, with the Indians failing to score a run. I'll admit, I was slightly worried that the park wouldn't play "Take Me Out To The Ball Game," and that my friend and I would have to a cappella it on our own. But sure enough, the public address announcer that there would indeed be a 14th inning stretch, and as he finished speaking, the organ began to play, leading those of us left into the song.
Again we stood, again we sang, and again we stretched. It was the most fun I had all night. All of the game's struggles vanished during that period of time. The poor pitching, the horrid hitting, all of it was forgotten or put aside for a little while. This made the whole game worth it, the whole terrible, awful, abysmal game worth it. It was absurd and ridiculous and perfect. And perfect timing as well. The Sox managed to win it during the bottom of the inning, mercifully ending the game after that wonderful high note.
I wonder what the 21st inning stretch is like...
Until next time, Orange Hat Guy
Mylo Xyloto — Coldplay
