"Contraband items not allowed in the stadium include: glass bottles, cans, weapons, poles, umbrellas, backpacks, 14 inch or larger purses or bags, coolers, thermoses, beachballs, inflatables, banners, signs, flags, use of laser pointers, firecrackers/fireworks, boom boxes, air horns, whistles, musical instruments and pets."
-From the Dodger Stadium A-to-Z Guide, published by the LA Dodgers (emphasis mine)I went to the Dodger game to night with Ari, Noam, and Jaimie. It was a lot of fun. We had great seats (thanks Joel and Ariella), the Dodgers won, and it was a beautiful night.
I also got a chance to do something I've wanted to do for a long time. A dream came true tonight.
In case you've never been to a Dodger game (or to any baseball stadium where beach balls are common): People bring beach balls to the baseball game. Beach balls are not allowed at the baseball game. People bring them anyway. They sneak them in. Then, they carefully (so as not to get caught by stadium staff) inflate their beach balls. Then, they hit their beach balls into the air. The beach balls bounce around. People hit the beach balls all around the stands. Eventually, an usher notices. He or she comes down the aisle where the ball is bouncing around, and stands there, waiting for the ball to fly by so they can catch it and confiscate it.
I hate beach balls. Three reasons:
1. Beach balls can be very dangerous, or at least very bothersome. If you're sitting close -- like we were tonight -- foul balls come into the stands at high speeds. You need to pay attention. Beach balls are a dangerous distraction. Even if you're sitting far away, a flying beach ball that hits someone who is not paying to the beach ball game could disrupt a well balanced coke or beer, or hit an old lady in the head, or whatever.
2. I came to watch a baseball game. I didn't come to play with your beach ball. Beach balls are not allowed at Dodger Stadium. Beach balls are allowed at the beach. I didn't pay $10 to park, $10 for a ticket, $4 for a coke, $4 for a hot dog, and $5 for a bag of peanuts so that I could be a spectator/participant in your beach ball game. I'm here to watch the baseball game. Keep your beach ball out of my way. I don't want them landing in my lap, landing on the field, or in the stadium at all. [Same goes for the wave: I didn't come here to be part of some giant coordinated movement of people. I came here to watch the ballgame. This is a baseball stadium. If baseball is too boring for you, then don't come. Now sit down and shut up.]
3. Beach balls are stupid. What the hell is the point of this beach ball game, anyway? Hit a beach ball around. Stare at it hoping that it comes near you so you can hit it. Hope that the usher doesn't catch it. If the usher does catch it, boo him for confiscating the beach ball. (It's not like its his job or anything, and it's not like it was unexpected). This seems like a very fun game, doesn't it? Well, if by "fun" you actually mean "insanely retarded," then sure. [Again, same goes for the wave. Is your life so ridiculously bland that you derive pleasure from being part of a large group of people that makes a game out of standing up in succession?]
A while ago, I vowed to myself (and my brother, who also goes to Dodger games to -- surprise -- watch the games) that if a beach ball ever landed right in my lap, I'd pop it. To repeat: I'm here to watch a baseball game. I don't want to deal with flying beach balls. Why sit there, trying to see the field over the heads of people standing up to reach the ricocheting beach ball, just to wait for the usher to catch it?
So tonight we were sitting just a few rows off the field, right behind third base. Serious foul ball territory. It was a great game. The Dodgers and Reds were see-sawing back and forth for a while. Some idiot pulls out a beach ball. Some other idiots encourage their small children to take their eyes off the game -- remember, the field is 25 feet away and hard objects are flying around at 100 mph -- so that they can watch the beach ball and hit it if it comes their way. (In my opinion, this is nothing short of child endangerment.)
Next thing I know, the beach ball is in my lap. Conveniently, I'm holding a pen. I'd rehearsed this moment in my head hundreds of times.
I raised my arm, pen poised in my hand. I brought it down hard on the beach ball. The pen punctured the soft plastic, and the ball deflated.
People booed. I ignored them. I watched the game. Ari, Noam, and Jaimie stared at me, mouths agape. I was the official bad guy of the section.
I smiled on the inside. People quickly forgot about the beach ball and went back to watching the game, talking with their friend, reading the ads pasted on every spare surface of the stadium ("Steve Garvey says 'Don't go bald! Get plugs!'"), or whatever. I was a hero to crotchety baseball-loving Dodger fans everywhere.
There was a dad sitting next to me with his three-year-old (or so) son on his lap. A minute or two after my moment of beach ball deflation glory, he was still struggling to comprehend.
"Daddy, I want to hit the beach ball," he said softly.
"I'm sorry. You can't hit the beach ball. That man popped the ball."
"Why did he pop the ball?"
"I don't know."
"But I wanted to hit the ball," he said, quietly and mournfully.
"Well, there's no ball anymore. That man popped it."
Am I evil or what?
