Baseball, The Great Flood, and Ice Cream

Picture it. March 2008. St. Louis, Missouri, home of Budweiser, Cardinals baseball, and the great Gateway Arch. In my country-girl-gone-to-the-big-city naiveté, I decided that the opening day game of the Cardinals baseball season would be a bit of fun. No one bothered to tell me that this city reveres Cardinal baseball as some strange beer-guzzling, naked chest painting, out-of-the-park religion.
The newscaster said that tickets were almost gone and that if I had any hope of getting one of those sacred thickets that I had better be downtown and in a hurry to the ticket office. Since the stadium was only seven blocks from my hotel, I thought I’d take my chances. Hey! I had a red shirt. I’d blend…or not!
I didn’t walk two blocks from my hotel before the “crazies” came out of the woodwork. I saw things that will both tickle and haunt me for the rest of my natural life. But, I got my picture taken with Sylvester the Cat and Daffy Duck and that alone was worth the walk.
And then it appeared…out of the darkness of the gray and overcast day, this larger than life shrine, or rather cathedral surrounded with throngs of loyal followers desperate to enter its gates and worship at the feet of the all powerful beer and hot dog man! Busch Stadium, one of the most famous stadiums in the US and home to the World Champion Cardinals….duh duh duh duh! (fanfare music inserted for dramatic effect) It was definitely impressive.
Excitement filled that air and some of the fans buzzed around in a frenzy to secure one of the coveted golden tickets into this baseball paradise. The line at the ticket window must have been a mile long. I decided to at least attempt to buy a ticket, but my fate seemed bleak. I looked around at all of the fanatical worshippers adorned in Cardinals t-shirts, caps, jackets, even floppy red hats covered with pins and “danglies” and thought, “They will laugh me out of the park if given the choice to sell a ticket to me to to one of the “Cardinal Crazies”!
Drizzling rain began to fall at that moment, solving two problems. One, my hair was looking entirely too good and others were feeling unworthy in my presence. The drizzle took care of that really quickly. And two, it gave me an excuse to spend $16 on a baseball cap to cover up my unsightly hair. You see, apparently I had too much money in my wallet and the money gods of the Cardinals felt that the $16 would lighten my load and help me blend into this strange land of chaos. Thank God for rain! Sixteen dollars!?! That’s right. I’d just like to say it was the cheapest had they had, save the $14 youth cap. I considered cramming my big head into one, but I decided that $2 was a small price to pay to ward off a migraine.
As I walked away from the money pit, I noticed an older gentleman about 10 feet away holding up a lone ticket for sale. I was convinced he was sent from heaven because, really, how many people actually go to a major league baseball game…alone!?! I like to think of myself as confident and brave rather than strange. Anyway, I approached the man. His asking price, $75. Now, there wasn’t a seat in the stadium I would have spent $75 for at that time, so I immediately shifted into negotiation mode. “I’m sorry, but all I have for a ticket. Would you take that?” At least the difference would cover most of the cost of the cap. He reluctantly agreed, money exchanged hands, and the deal was done.
Now, what to do for two hours? I decided to mingle among the zoo animals…er…I mean fans. Opening Day is obviously HUGE in St. Louie because there was an entire square mile of things to do and people to see…makeshift tailgate grills, vendors handing out freebie Cardinals paraphernalia, musicians looking to make a quick buck on the corners blowing a tune of Take Me Out To the Ballgame on the saxophone, fans dressed in every imaginable combination of Cardinals sports gear, painted bodies, red and blue spiked hair.
Gates opened, fans flooded in, and I felt like either a fish swimming upstream or a pinball being batted back and forth, back and forth. Amidst the chaos, I found my section, walked up the ramp and…wow! It was surreal! At that moment I got it. I suddenly understood all the hype and anticipation. I wished instantly that my family was with me. After I waded thru the complete awe, I looked for my seat. The treasure hunt revealed that the ticket possessed access to an amazing view of the field from 1st tier seating just behind 1st base. I wasn’t sure whether to feel pride or guilt in regard to my previous negotiation for the ticket. I seated myself only to turn to face the victim of my bargain. I chose guilt. The man and I exchanged pleasantries and personal geographic information. He shared what must have been a complete history of Cardinal baseball upon learning that it was indeed my first visit to Busch Stadium. He was SO nice! More guilt.
We finally settled into our seats for the festivities, and what pomp and circumstance it was! Fireworks exploded overhead promising an unforgettable afternoon, a promise that would be kept. Now, fast forward thru a wonderful parade of pre-game activities and 2 ½ innings of Cardinals vs. Colorado Rockies baseball. The sky that previously had only been a pale grey was apparently angered, because it became a dark and snarling mass, threatening to snuff out our flame of excitement. In a strategic defensive move, I donned my new baseball cap and topped it with the $10 poncho which was little more than a glorified trash bag stamped with the St. Louis logo.
True to its threat, the sky rumbled menacingly, flashed its glaring teeth of lightening, opened up and sent thousands of Cardinal clad fans racing for dry cover as the heavens unloaded millions of gallons of water on my baseball parade. I valiantly stayed my post, defiantly calling its bluff. I had paid $60 for that seat, and by golly, my seat would not be removed! There I sat under that red sheet of recycled material, pondering my current circumstance as water trickled from the bill of my cap, plip plopped onto the poncho, and somehow found its way inside my $10 shelter. I was cold. I was inexplicably wet, and the plastic had done nothing to prevent my sweat glands from over reacting. I think I smelled. I felt like the offspring of a wet dog and a near-drowned gutter rat.
Then something strange happened. I chuckled, laughing quietly at first and progressing in hysteria. I tried hiding my giggles, but the heaving of my shoulders surely gave it away. I felt like that little teenage girl in church that caught a bout of the giggles during service, desperately trying to stifle them before my daddy cleared his throat in his threatening “you better straighten up or I’m coming down there” sort of way. I’m certain while sitting in the rain at the ball field laughing hysterically that I must have appeared to be in need of some psychotropic drug of some sort, but all I could think of in that moment was the phone call I had made earlier. I had called my 14 year old son, who loves baseball, at school, pulled him out of class, and with my own ornery flair, gloated shamelessly about my great adventure! He had not been amused, calling me a brat, and I found that fact hysterically comical. It was downright cruel. I am ashamed of myself even if my intent was only to tease him. Then the verse began to ring in my ears, “Pride cometh before a fall.” It just seemed so appropriate to giggle, or to guffaw as it were. The irony was just too much. As I tried to regain my breath, my laughter abruptly halted when the stark realization of the inevitable game cancellation hit me square between the eyes like a long foul ball past 1st base. I knew that attending a make-up game was out of the question because of my conference. Disappointment popped a tent, set up camp and taunted me shamelessly.
Tier one, 1st base ticket to the opening day game: a well-negotiated $60. Baseball cap, souvenir baseball, plastic poncho, mini-pizza and a soda: $56. Calling to brag to a very jealous son about getting to attend that game only to have it rained out less than three innings into the game: priceless! This particular fall just seemed overdone. No refunds. Come back tomorrow. CAN’T! “Yep, this one is overkill, Lord.” I sat under that red plastic tent of defeat, texting my sweet, beloved husband and very best friend hoping for a little sympathy…only digital laughter in response. “Wrong! Now that was just wrong! Did you see that, God? Get him!” There I was, two states away missing my family so much I had to resort to attending a major league baseball game by myself! I wouldn’t head home for another four days and then I’d have to fly in an airplane, aka “big metal tube of death” that may or may not make the trip home, possibly leaving him a lonely widow left to raise three teenage boys and a seven-year-old princess completely alone!...and he was laughing at me?!? The wheels in my head immediately started turning, planning my “smackdown” should that reunion occur.
Still licking my wounds, I called my friend, Rebekah. I didn’t even say “hello”. I started the conversation with, “Bek, why am I still shocked when stuff happens to me?” Her response? More laughter, cackling, if you will—that brat! Mental note: plan another merciless attack! Honestly, at that point I had reached that semi-psychotic state where my only recourse seemed to be reciprocal laughter. “Better to laugh than to cry”, or so I’ve heard. The guy who came up with that one needs duct tape strategically placed over his mouth so he won’t talk so much. I will say that our conversation ended with me still loving my friend, albeit with a hint of suspicion.
The game was indeed called and I was completely and utterly defeated. I rose from my post sending a cascade of pooled water from my poncho into…my boots—nice. As I contemplated my 7 block trek back to the hotel…in the downpour…with wet boots…smelling like a European street during the black plague, the gentleman from whom I had purchased that deceiving ticket to great all-American delight returned to the seats. He asked if I would be able to attend the make-up game the following day. “I don’t think so.” I poked out my bottom lip, pouting for effect. Suddenly, the skies metaphorically dried up and the sun beat down on me as blue birds, or rather red cardinals chirped cheerfully…the man reached into his wallet and returned my money in exchange for my ticket! He felt so bad that it was my very first Cardinals game and it got rained out. He had a friend who could use the ticket the next day. I felt such gratitude! I wanted to throw my arms around him, kiss his cheek, and call him “grandpa”, but I was afraid he may call the men in white coats to cart me away. I simply said, “thank you” with my sincerest of smiles and took my leave.
As I walked with a little bounce in my step toward 8th & Washington, I looked up to heaven with a sheepish grin. “Hey, God? Thanks!” I considered my day and its colorfully eventful display. Remembering the loyal and somewhat fanatical fans, I wondered, “About what am I passionate?”…my family, my job, my favorite sporting team, or it is my God? I want it to be God, but do my actions reflect that? What have I experienced that would make others desperate to have the same? Love, friendship, wonderful vacations, or is it a Lord and Savior who gave his very life, defeated death, hell and the grave and rose again to become victorious in securing my salvation so I could live with him in heaven for eternity? I want my desperation to enter the gates of his presence to worship at his feet to be greater than throngs of fans at a sporting event. I purposed right then to be a greater servant for God, to worship him with greater fervor and passion, to seek him more desperately and earnestly, and to share him more openly and with greater excitement.
Then another realization occurred to me. God had been the perfect model of a father that day. He had lovingly and somewhat humorously taught me a lesson and gave me time to think about my actions. Then he smiled at me, winked, and said, “Hey! Let’s go get ice cream” He even gave me sprinkles before I could even think to ask in the shape of three twenty dollar bills folded in my pocket. That was money I could use to spoil my children a little…not to mention it was all a little more material for my book. Great fun, discipline with a humorous twist, spiritual enlightenment, book material and ice cream with sprinkles…now that’s my kind of God! There just seems to be nothing he cannot do. How does he do it?