Ballgame

By Matthew Dexter

The pretzels were soft and the beer was sticky. The pretzels were for me, and the beer was for dad. This was his seventh beer, but he had been drinking in the parking lot since early morning. It was safe to say he was toasted. The salt was the best part of the pretzel, but I knew I had to eat it fast because it was almost time to become famous.

“You ready Johnny?” Dad asked.

“Ready when you are Daddy,” I answered.

“They’re only gonna serve beer for one more inning so I’m gonna order another three for some courage,”he said, “that’s ok with you?”

“Of course Daddy, go ahead,” I answered.

“Thanks my boy,” he said, rubbing my head and messing up my hair with his hand while he took an enormous sip from the beer in his other palm.

“Three for the road,” he screamed at the vendor a few rows down.

The vendor flashed Dad a look of contempt but came up the steps nonetheless. He grimaced at Dad and we knew he was searching for the right words without being offensive to the stadium goers.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough sir?”

Dad laughed when he heard the words come out of the old mans mouth.

“Relax my man–we’re tourists from New Orleans–my son and I are only trying to enjoy the ballgame.”

The man nodded but kept his hands in the pockets of his pants until Dad flashed a crisp fifty dollar bill and the vendor could not resist the generous tip. His shoes had holes in them and he had kids who wanted to go to college someday.

“Okey-dokey,” the man said, handing Dad three beers in procession as if it were an emergency assembly line of sandbags instead of Miller Lite.

“Thanks good man,” Dad said.

The vendor shook his head and walked away.

“Be brave my son,” Dad said. “We need all the courage we can muster; the media attention will be good for us and I’ll only be locked up for a few hours at most.”

I know Daddy,” I said.

I had the number for my mother in my pocket and my father would never put me in any danger. Here we were in Turner Field in Atlanta; the home of the Braves and we would be free once our message spread across the country. We were trapped on our rooftop during Hurricane Katrina for three days before anyone found us. My father lost half his family and became an alcoholic after the disaster. This is the first time we’ve seen each other in nearly four years, since a week after landfall when Dad got arrested for public intoxication and Mom left him. This was our reunion.

“Booooooo!” the crowd jeered.

“This ump sucks Johnny,” Dad said. “I think he’s blind.”

“Strike him out baby!” Dad said softly, “time for the seventh inning stretch.”

“Yeaaahhhhh!”

The crowd erupted and rose to their feet. Except for Dad, who sat at peace drinking his beers.
“Two down and one to go Johnny,” he said.

I nodded and finished the last ring of my pretzel.

“Ready when you are Daddy.”

The count was three and two. It was the top of the seventh, with the Braves leading the Indians by a score of 5-4.

“Now–Johnny–now!”

Dad jumped up, ripping his shirt off his shoulders to expose the red bull’s-eye on his back and the George W. Bush caricature painted onto his hairy chest.

I followed him down the steps of the lower level of the stadium, taking each step faster than the one before it. We made it above the Indians dugout and Dad took off his pants as fast as he could.

Security noticed us, and they were running down the steps, talking into walky-talkies.
“Be brave Johnny,” Dad said. “Be brave.”

We were on top of the dugout and on the field within seconds, running across the infield like idiots, Dad naked as an Indian and me as brave as a soldier. They were never going to catch us and Dad made a run around the bases and slid headfirst into home plate before the uniformed security could wrap their arms around his neck. But by that time he had already body-slammed the unsuspecting umpire standing with his hands on his hips into the dirt. Dad was definitely going to get ejected for that one.