I'm In The Wrong Half

I have to keep this short because I'm about to take part in a conference call. That sounds important doesn't it? I don't know how important it is, but I do know that I wanted to get this finished so I can focus on trying to discern three separate voices on my static filled phone. I also wanted to post early to purge the sadness that has enveloped me this morning. My funk has nothing to do with health, finance or the American Idol outcome. It's not even real, just a literary device that I'm employing to garner your sympathy. Last night I was again reminded of "how the other half lives" and that I am in the wrong half.

My friend Mike asked me to join him at the Sox game last night. Mike is a die hard Cubs fan, so the invite was questionable to begin with. He told me he had gotten some "Scout Seats" and knew I would enjoy them. He's right. Two years ago, I got a similar invitation from Mike and was just now coming down from the experience. For the uninitiated, "Scout Seats" are the Holy Grail of White Sox tickets. They are an all inclusive passport to opulence, decadence, and any other word that ends in "dence". They are the kind of high end, ultra rich "premium" tickets that are becoming prevalent throughout professional sports as the haves try to increase their separation from the have-nots. Let's be honest though, with rising ticket and concession prices, there aren't too many have-nots at the games anymore. I don't want to sound like some Communist hippy. I'm all for people making money and I don't believe that anyone has a right to go to a sporting event or concert. It's a luxury and last night I soaked up all the luxury I could handle.

It starts with special parking. We didn't have to park with the rest of the rabble and wander like the Israelites for forty days to reach the stadium. No, we were given parking mere feet from our special entrance. I could feel the longing gazes of the regular ticket holders as my merry band of elitists sauntered in without having to stand in a line of sweaty fans like some Ellis Island receiving station. We were then shown into a private dining room and treated to the "Chef's Table Buffet". Hold on pal. Don't eat too much in here, there will be a menu of treats and roving hot dog and Polish sausage vendors at the seats. I didn't take my own advice and bellied up to the buffet like a veal calf just let out of my box. If you need to wash down all that buffet goodness, why not treat yourself to a cocktail. To quote the cinematic gem Animal House, "don't cost nuthin'." I had never drank top shelf bourbon at a baseball game, but rules are made to be broken. A few Manhattans in the dining room and a few wild, fruity, tropical punches at the seats were a nice change from the over priced, luke warm domestic swill I usually have to swallow in my cheap seats. Wow, I do sound elitist. I can't help it, I was born to live a life of idle excess.

The seats themselves are a baseball fan's wet dream. The section is set apart from the rest of the park by bars and velvet ropes. We were in the second row, directly behind home plate. I'm not talking about elevated seats far removed from the action, I'm talking almost ground level, wide, padded thrones that put you in the middle of the action. With every pitch we were treated to the loud pop of ball hitting mitt. Every practice swing in the on deck circle was an aural explosion of air being forcibly moved creating a whoosh that I haven't experienced since I used my Hot Wheels tracks as weapons in 1968. You can see every pitch clearly and are so close to the game that the idea of running out and shagging a fly ball doesn't seem too far fetched.

It's all over now though. I'm back to my normal life, or as normal a life as I can conjure. I know the memories of my time nestled lovingly in luxury's lap will carry me through my next visit to the ballpark when I will once again be forced to stand in line for the restroom with the rest of the middle and lower crusts. At least I had the opportunity to taste the sweet, rarefied upper crust. Sometimes a taste is all you need. I gotta go. The phone is ringing. Maybe the conference call will allow me to pull the velvet rope aside again. If not, it's back to the domestic swill for me. Later...Brian