Jamin's Post:
It’s baseball season again, the game that is more American than muscle cars and those gastronomical treasures like Twinkies and Oreo Cakesters. Last Sunday, for my Step-Mom’s 60th birthday, Cole and I went to the Mariners matinee game against the Detroit Tigers, which fulfilled an American right-of-passage that took me over a decade to complete: attending my first major league baseball game. Full discloser: Cole has been to one Mariners game last year but this was in a suite, which caters to fans that know more about the golden rule of never wearing white after labor day than always bunting with runners on first and second with no one out. He also didn't fully grasp where he was. He wasn't asking, “where’s the Mariner Moose?” and calling out “fastball” after the ball popped the catchers mitt in the bullpen.
A couple days before the game we asked Cole if he wanted to go to the Mariners game, which was on television, and he quickly and pointedly said, “OK.” From then until we entered the gates we heard a cavalcade of, “I go to Mariners game...I go to Mariners game?” In preparation we naturally needed all the essentials, which percolated into: two Mariners wristbands; a Mariners key chain with his name on it; an authentic tack-and-twill jersey we later personalized with SVENDSEN and the number 1 on the back; and unbeknownst to us a stuffed baseball with the Mariner Moose on it. Yes, Sodo mojo intoxicated Cole to the point of stealing merchandise. Once the effort to return it collided against a bulkhead of cries, his Grandma relieved his misdemeanor offence with a couple of dollars.
Sunday morning we geared up and headed to the park. Cole was exited for a day of baseball and family, while I was feeling slightly guilty of inculcating him to a love of baseball. I suppose it's better than aspirations of becoming a Matador if he grew up in Spain or a curler in Canada. Nevertheless, we descended through the gates of America’s cathedral and Cole laid his eyes upon the manicured carpet of plaid emerald hues glowing bright with from the sun, past the dark cavernous breezeway where we stood, and I could see on his face the same emotion that hit me when I first glimpsed the field of the Kingdome more than 15 years ago. His eyes widened and his mouth literally dropped opened with amazement; my fears of indoctrination slid away.
The game was not friendly to the Mariners but the experience kept Cole amused from the national anthem to the last train whistle. He was fascinated about the geneses of the music and public announcements. Once I pointed out the speakers high above us, he wanted to let everyone know his new found knowledge. He proceeded to dance in the aisle between every inning and when the music stopped he asked, “Where’s the music?” and said, “Music all gone.” We heard myriad train whistles (choo-choos) and rushed behind the stands to eye the trains on two occasions after Cole said, “I wanna see!” In summation we saw a couple green trains, an orange one and a brown train when leaving.
Once back in the car for the ride home Cole gradually appeased his heavy eyelids and fell asleep, only after pointing out every Jack in the Box and McDonald’s or, as he calls them, "Yellow" we passed. These moments are truly the treasures we hold forever; safe from depreciation, taxes and thieves (even the two year-old kind); this is the end of all our means.
