The Story of my First Ever Baseball Game

My first baseball game was a Chicago White Sox day game in the mid-to-late 90s. I went with a friend whose family was well-to-do enough that we usually ended up sitting right behind the home team dugout. When I say behind, I mean that if I wanted to, I could reach down and probably touch the top of a player's head if I really, really tried. I didn't know it at the time, but apparently these were great seats.

We used to go to these games because (and this might have had something to do with the good seats too) no one carded us for booze. Ever. So, we would sit there, get sloshed off our asses, and then walk down the street to where my friend's mother was waiting for us, and go home from there.  I am prefacing the next story I tell you with this one - you need to understand where we sitting in order to 'get' the next story.

Eric asked me if I knew what the black marks under baseball player's eyes were for.

I'm sorry, I didn't notice their eyes, I was focusing on their assess this whole time.

And I tell him I DO KNOW - it's to keep the sun from reflecting into their eyes. And he is surprised, since I seriously do not follow baseball that much (it's more of a drinking game for me) and asks me how I know this. I tell him the following story:

So, when my friend and I used to go to games, I would occasionally have questions about certain things. When I would have these questions, I would hop over the gate by the dugout, and walk up to an old man with a Sox uniform on, and ask him questions. When I had a question about the eye stuff, I asked him, he told me, and then I went back through the gate and sat down and watched the rest of the game.


When I tell Eric this story, his eyes bugged out, and he was shocked. Apparently, that's illegal now. And apparently, it was illegal to go out on the field then as well. People just kept letting me do it because I didn't realize it was illegal, and I wasn't really causing trouble. Plus - and Eric says this is the most important part - they couldn't figure out who my father was. I could be some owner's kid, they didn't know. Eric guesses (and this is from many times of me pointing to people in games over the years) that I was asking the White Sox's third base coach basic questions about baseball.

In fairness to him, he would always answer them, and call me sweetie and tell me if I had any other questions to just come on down and see him. He was genuinely a nice guy. I should have bought him a beer.

It just goes to show, if you look like you know where you are going, and that you are meant to be there, you can pretty much get away with anything.