Alexandra Kloster, Pass the Hot Dish

Every so often I hear something on television that makes me want to stick my head in the oven. Two hundred million eggs are slimy with salmonella. Jails are bursting at the cell blocks with reality-show fakers and Hollywood starlets. The majority of college freshmen think Beethoven is a dog, and every June, even though I know it’s coming, I’m shocked to hear: “With baseball season nearly half over …”

“Half over? They’ve already played 700 games! It only takes 12 weeks and a bowl game to decide the best college football team, so what’s baseball trying to prove?”

I wail in the direction of my husband, Graham. He answers by grabbing the remote and saying the eight words that fill me with tedium from spring to fall, “Let’s see how the Twins are doing tonight.”

I’ve tried to like baseball. I really have, but the last time I found a baseball game entertaining was when Roger Clemens went wackadoo and pitched the business end of a broken bat at Mike Piazza during the 2000 World Series. Since then our national pastime has felt more like national naptime to me.

Nevertheless, I gave Graham Twins tickets for his birthday because he’s a fan, and he wanted to see Target Field while it’s still shiny and new. For his sake, I would feign enjoyment while watching a bunch of guys eat sunflower seeds and stand around scratching. I never suspected that I would walk into the ballpark a nonbeliever and three hours later walk out a converted soul.

As we took our seats behind a family decked out like toy soldiers in a Twins army, Graham asked if I understood the basics of baseball. Of course I did. “It’s like kickball,” I explained, “three bases, three outs, and the scrawny girl is always picked last for the team, but I’m not bitter.”

The skyline never looked as beautiful as it did from the view of our nosebleed section. Designed with a nod to the sky and an eye on the diamond, it seemed like there couldn’t be a bad seat in Target Field. Now I understood all the fuss about outdoor baseball. No matter what I thought of the game, the sunset, the breeze, and later sitting under the stars, I experienced something I’d never felt at a sporting event — relaxation. Time was irrelevant. Nobody seemed to care if nine innings took two hours or six.

You could have knocked me over with a foul ball when, just like in the movies, peddlers appeared in the stands singsong selling their wares.

I couldn’t believe that in this self-serve world there is still a place where snacks come to you. A couple of roaming vendors sounded more like they were demanding than selling. “BEER!” shouted the one on my right. On my left another one yelled “ICE CREAM!” I’d never been ordered to drink beer or eat ice cream before, and at the same time! When Graham came back from wandering the concourse and found me indulging double fisted with a Bud in one hand and an Eskimo Pie in the other all I could offer by way of explanation was, “I had no choice.”

The game, when you could see all the action instead of the single shots of players with the occasional pan of the field allowed by television cameras, was surprisingly fun to watch. Graham explained the difference between pitching from the stretch and the windup, and I learned that bunting is not done because the batter’s afraid of the ball. In fact, I think a sacrifice bunt is a mighty nice thing to do for a guy. It turns out there was a lot of strategy and technique involved in the way the Twins handed Oakland their A’s last Saturday night. I learned a valuable lesson that evening about tolerance and open-mindedness: never judge a sport by its limited television coverage.

Target Field was indeed shiny and new, but the old traditions and rituals remained. When the crowd stood up at the seventh-inning stretch and started singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” no sports anthem’s lyrics ever rang truer. We really were all root, root, rooting for the home team, and what a shame it would have been if they’d lost. We were eating peanuts and Cracker Jack and who really cared if we never got back? For as the A’s learned the hard way, it was one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game. And I can’t wait to go back.

Note: The fact that two consecutive portions of Pass the Hot Dish have been about sports is an accident of circumstance. Any resemblance I may have to a real sportswriter living or dead is purely coincidental.

St. Paul resident Alexandra Kloster appears on two Fridays a month. She may be reached at alikloster@yahoo.com and her blog is Radishes at Dawn at alexandrakloster.com.