The Seventh Inning Stretch

by Kurt Kitasaki

It's the seventh inning. I just had my seventh beer. Through my blurred vision I peer out from my left field seat. I ponder what it would feel like to leap over this rail, sprint onto the field, and dive into home plate.

Surely this capacity crowd of 55,000 New Yorkers wouldn't mind. Because when you analyze it, people don't attend these events to watch a group of athletes toss a ball around. Or to watch some well-trained athletes compete. Why do people attend these events? To be entertained. So the question isn't why. It's why not.

I recall my uncle in Missouri telling me about his experience at such a venture. He explained in his inebriated voice how the cheers of the crowd engulfed him with a sense of euphoric vision. As the cheers increased, he swore he was about to be hit with some great revelation. Unfortunately the police dragged him off the field before the discovery, and gave him a beating.

I ponder—what mystery did he nearly unlock?

I put down my seventh beer and have doubts. The red railing flashes like a traffic signal. It's a barrier separating fans from the iconic few who are allowed onto this quasi-religious landscape. I'm also reminded of a recent ESPN article saying that laws are being enacted to include not just a fine, but prison for fans who run on the field.

Could this be because they are hiding something? I feel obliged to finish the task my uncle started. Yet the thought of prison frightens me.

But through my blurred vision I gaze at home plate. It's hypnotic. Beckoning.

The crowd is singing, "Take me out to the ballgame." I stare at the plate. It seems to be whispering, "Take me, take me."

In seconds I jump the rail and dash down the crisp green field. Most observers might believe that the seven beers I consumed this inning are contributing to my behavior. That would be a baseless accusation. To be precise, it's the seven beers along with the five shots of vodka I had in the stadium parking lot.

First the crowd appears stunned. Soon they understand what's occurring and roar in approval. Growing up as a kid I recalled witnessing this behavior during games and being appalled. I've grown up since then and can see how immature my thoughts were.

Exhilaration engulfs me, along with a sense of intrusion as I tread onto this ground which has been consigned to a privileged minority. The hot night air lifts my blond hair as my 185-pound frame races towards the hallowed target. Beneath my feet I feel the pristine green grass cut to uniform specifications, with the precision of a master hairstylist.

Into the infield I dash like a common street urchin barging into the heart of Buckingham Palace. (Torn jeans and all. I should've rented a tuxedo for this occasion.) The aligned bases glaring like white diamonds awe my senses. I have an up close view of a realm constructed for god-like people idolized since childhood.

With my pulse ricocheting off the scale, my objective appears in range. As I dive into home plate with a reddish-brown cloud of dust I can't help but recall my uncle in Missouri telling me the story about how he tried the same thing during that rainy game in St. Louis, with the help of a lot more alcohol I'm proud to say.

I also fondly remember his story about how his grandfather interrupted the first-ever World Series by barreling into the catcher at home plate, giving him a minor concussion in the process. Ever since then they have been required to wear masks and chest protectors. And I'm not going to even mention what his great-grandfather did to make the league require players to wear cups.

I dust myself off before the cheering crowd. As I hear the cheers of the audience increase, I start to notice a change. The landscape looks less refined. Apparently my uncle was right all along. I feel ashamed to admit it, but I assumed he just had too much to drink that day.

My feelings of exhilaration dissipate as I see my worst nightmare, New York City Police officers, advancing from dark partitioned concrete. Objective: to crush my joyful intrusion onto this Athletic Eden. I think if I just surrendered now I could declare a moral victory. I clearly outdid my uncle. But no, I am on a mission. I break right, avoiding my captors, sprinting to centerfield, leaving the garbled sounds of cursing law enforcement echoing through the night air.

There are no reins as I accelerate on this sacred field. Seconds later, I perform another head-first dive in dead center. For a while I decide to lay on my stomach, limbs outstretched. The cheers of the crowd now near deafening decibels. The vibrating noise echoes in my skull, the bases and pitcher's mound appear more oblique. I lift myself up and a dozen officers close in from every angle. All escape routes are cut off. I am being enveloped.

All rationality tells me to surrender. But I see the blue-collar fans in the audience, I imagine how hard they worked to enjoy a night of entertainment. And, more important, I am so close to unlocking this mystery. If I could just make this audience cheer a little louder. I hear the slurred voice of my uncle beckoning me onward, like a Homeric Greek Siren.

They're now within five yards, I notice a clump of dry dirt in my left pocket, an alluvial deposit from my legendary slide into home. Slowly, I move my hand down. One finger at a time disappears into my pocket. As they approach I turn, and with a coiled motion, I throw a lateral grapeshot of refined earth into stunned faces.

Amid a chorus of gags and coughs through flaring nostrils, I break the human envelopment. Staggering forward in my dirt-stained t-shirt, I prepare for a stunt that will bring these spectators to their feet, and unlock this enigma.

Conclusion—»