Societal Satire in Shorts

Comedy Of ERAs

S. G. Lacey

​

1st Inning – Mom:
        Frustrated by the lack of movement amongst the line of cars in front of me, I hammer on the crumbling tan vinyl middle of the steering wheel to initiate the paltry horn.  Which accomplishes nothing, aside from providing a temporary respite for my burgeoning ire.
        We’ve been stuck in traffic for the past 45 minutes, moving sluggishly along beltways around the city center.  Now, that we’re nearing the stadium, the prior meager movement has completely ceased.  Who knew there could be this much urban congestion on a Sunday afternoon?  
       Anxiously, I check the digital clock on the dashboard radio, neon blue lights on a gloss black background, which confirms my worst fears.  We’re going to miss the first pitch.  Pregame batting practice was always a pipe dream, but I thought our noon departure from the western exurbs would at least get us here in time for the real action.  Damn!
        This adventure is an incredibly rare and important splurge for our poor family.  The first time my father, who’s 72, and my son, who’s 12, are attending a Red Sox baseball game together in person.  Given the gravity of the occasion, I’m desperately committed to making this day perfect.  This is not a good start.
        Begrudgingly, I increase the volume of the jalopy’s speakers, thereby raising the volume of the live broadcast.  This device is already tuned to the local AM station, which covers all Boston professional sports squads with a relentless onslaught of programming, primarily negative in content.  Which fits the demeanor of most pour saps inhabiting this town.   
        When at home, I prefer to watch the games on TV.  The announcers are better, and the game progress easier to track using the perpetual box score in the bottom of the display, as I’m often distracted with cleaning, cooking, and childcare duties in the evening.
      For now, this audio commentary will have to suffice.  But soon enough, I’ll be viewing the action live.  With my respected patriarch and my future lineage at my side.  Provided we ever get this vehicle stowed and enter the stadium. 
      Eyes focused on the road, ears on the radio, the next 5 minutes are relatively uneventful.  Except for the pair of wrinkled $20 bills I’m forced to fork over to the attendant at the entrance booth, just for the right to pass onto a massive expanse of pavement.  
       At least we’re making some progress, finally entering the actual venue parking lot, while the action on the mound progresses nicely as well, with the home hurler retiring the first two road batters on meager groundouts. 
        Then, chaos ensues on both fronts.  As I turn into my allotted space, as denoted by the spirited flagger employee, a huge black SUV charges in from the back side of the row, it’s hulking frame and shimmering grill claiming the zone I was destined for.  There’s no way my aged station wagon can compete with this monstrosity.
        My anger is briefly assuaged by a change in cadence from the radio.  The rapidity and shrillness of the commentary can only mean one thing.  A play of interest is occurring.  An on-field development which turns out to be the opposite of consolation.  
        Apparently, the 3rd batter of the game for the opposing team, a perennial nemesis to the Red Sox, has homered deep over the Green Monster.  We’re down 1-0, even before our boys come to the plate, or this collective of fans enters the grounds.  Granted, that’s a play I can do without seeing in person.    
    This unfortunate development is the last straw.  I know I shouldn’t swear with a youngster in the car, but the confluence of calamities is just too much to keep bottled inside.  At least my dad, sitting in the front seat, already curses like a sailor, and has hearing issues.  Not surprising, since his father actual was a seaman, manning the thundering battleship cannons in World War II.
        Realizing a ramming contest with the monster truck in front of me is futile, I back up, engaging the horn in another lengthy salvo, then move down the expanse of yellow-lined concrete to the next available spot.  Finally.  Let’s go watch some baseball!

 

2nd Inning – Gramps: 
        Where did all these crazies come from?  Don’t they have any other ways to get into this stadium?
      Back in my youth, we just walked through the multitude of broad gates, with just a cursory glance from the bored attendant at the paper ticket each anxious fan flashed as they hurried by.  
      No black and white barcodes.  No electronic scanning devices.  No cellphone digital access.  No magnetic screening portals.
        I remember saving stubs from the few times I was lucky enough to enter these hallowed grounds for a baseball game.  These cherished items were tacked to the headboard of my childhood bed, each paper pelt representing a multitude of memories.  The rare one with an actual player printed on the background, in color, was especially prized in my youth.
       After essentially disrobing, forced to remove my hat, belt, and shoes, I’m finally able to pass through the thorough physical inspection process.  At least I’m able to convince this pack of security personnel my titanium replacement hip is a permanent bodily fixture.  
       The minions were definitely leery of my pill bottle as well.  Not sure what drugs the young folks are experimenting with these days, but unless I find someone with constipation after ingesting too many hot dogs, I’m not sure this medication will have much resale value on the black market. 
       Barely surviving the gauntlet, I’m immediately thrust into the next physical challenge.  Keeping up with my daughter, who is clearly anxious to get to our assigned seats, and her son, who is so lean and lithe that he’s able to fit through imperceptible gaps in the crowd.  
       While I’m equally thin, my movements are that of an aged man, as opposed to a spry boy.  After just a few minutes of hurried following, along a congested spiral ramp where is feel like we’re going against the flow of traffic, I concede defeat. 
      I call out to my companions to forge ahead, ensuring them I’ll catch up.  After turning to briefly acknowledge my meager utterance, their doubled pace, quickly disappearing into the throng, suggests the familial duo is happy to be free on my encumbrance.     
      Exiting the cloistered incline at the first available opportunity, onto a wide and flat space, my frail frame is finally offered enough space to relax.  And breath.  
      Time to find an item with is critical to my documentation procedure for any baseball game, at any level.  A scorebook.  The apparent abolishment of physical paper from society, my second realization of this technological change in the past half hour, makes a seemingly simple task difficult.  My slow stroll around the upper concourse, pace hindered by both the robust crowds and my weak hip, yields nothing.
       Sure, there are plenty of wares being pedaled.  Just not what I’m looking for.  
      Flashy jerseys and caps, some in colors which bear no resemblance to the historic branding of the Boston Red Sox.  What happened to the simple deep red text, on a bright white background, with tasteful navy-blue accents?  The iconic sock logo has even been cannibalized, transformed into several cartoonish, artistic forms.  How times have changed.   
     All manner of food and beverages are available, everything seemingly combining some elements fried and salty, alcoholic and sweet.  While I’m no bastion of health, this spread doesn’t seem ideal for intaking daily sustenance.  
     Then there’s the random merchandise, most of which is only loosely related to the sport of baseball, let alone the franchise which calls Fenway Park home.  As a proud grandfather, I’m all for catering to kids.  However, this environment feels more like a strip mall than an athletic venue.  Not to mention the exorbitant prices.   
      Finally, in a dark corner on the outer side of the loop, offering up no view of the field, I find a gentleman even older than myself.  Which is saying something.  
      This secluded post has one key luxury.  Adjacency of a lockable handicap bathroom.  This vendor is wise even beyond his many years.  
    Though I don’t have any official medical credentials, my feeble physique and wrinkled face should be admission enough.  My failing prostate requires frequent trips to the loo, so I’m not going to pass up this golden opportunity. 
    Having emptied the tank, and finally secured my precious spreadsheet, I work backwards and downwards to the location along the right field foul line where I know our seats are located.  Soon, I’m reunited with my family in our assigned chairs.  This pair is already so engaged by the game action that they barely notice my arrival.  No matter, I can keep myself entertained. 
       I’ve been keeping book during Sox baseball games for decades, primarily while listening on the radio at home.  Being on site is a completely different experience, especially in this modern era.
    With only 30 seconds between batters, and a strict 2:05 minute transition between innings, down time has been substantial reduced.  Which is great for engaged scorekeeping, but not so conducive to absorbing color commentary articles in my newly purchased publication.  There’s still plenty of riveting reading of my paper program to be had, having only found time to scan the first few articles thus far on my slow stroll down here to field level.  
     Most enlightening just a quarter of the way through this magazine, I’ve discovered that this off-season the entire stadium was refit with very powerful, yet energy efficient, stadium lights.  Peering up at the immensely tall light stanchions ringing the field, the large clear lenses look normal to me.  Granted, I’m no exterior illumination expert.  
     Considering the current brilliant sunshine, and 1:35 PM start time, if we get to experience this blazingly brilliant technological advancement today, then something has gone seriously wrong with the gameplay flow.  This upgrade just gives me another reason to come back for a nighttime contest.  Especially if it’s on my daughter’s dime again.
       As the new inning begins, I extract the stub of pencil which I keep perpetually jammed in the breast pocket of my flannel shirt, a habit initiated over 50 years ago as a fledgling apprentice in the carpentry industry which became my livelihood.  I’m now retired, but the repetitive journeys up and down a ladder will linger with me for the rest of my days.  In the form of worn leg joints, a hunched back, and still muscular forearms. 
       Settling into the rigid plastic seat, with minimal padding, I strain my weak eyes to identify the current player at the plate.  I can easily determine the team, the Red Sox are on offense, fortunately in their traditional home grab, but the participant’s number and name are too small to ascertain, even on the back of this lefty, which is obliquely exposed from our viewing point. 
     Fortunately, I casually glance upwards, to the press box behind the action, and am immediately rewarded with supplemental information.  There’s a broad strip of lights, which displays the pitcher, batter, and other key game details.  This is the exact information I need to place the correct last name in the correct line-up spot.
      Despite all the delays getting to the park, it’s still only the bottom of the 2nd inning, with two outs, and the home team down 1-0, on account of the dinger which punctuation our parking.  I missed a few additional hits by the road squad, along with an error, which likely accounts for the Sox runner currently bouncing off 2nd base.  
       Using shaky but precise capital text, I carefully scrawl the 6 letters of the batter’s last name, along with the first initial, in the assumed 7 hole of the line-up, based on the other game details at my disposal.  Hopefully there weren’t any walks yet.  In addition, I enter the player’s jersey number, as this will be useful to identify the lad’s position when he moves out to the field.
       This system should work well.  If I remain diligent, in just a single turn of the line-up, which will be completed by the bottom of the 5th at the latest, all the key participants will be catalogued.  Assuming no early substitutions are made.  
Smiling at my proficiency, I settle in to enjoy, and catalog, the current at-bat.  Which doesn’t take long. 
        A ball in the dirt.  A swinging strike up in the zone.  Then a lazy fly ball, hit off the end of the bat, into shallow center field.  What a meager effort!  
      “F-8” is written on my parchment even before the opposing outfielder squeezes his glove.  Major Leaguers don’t make mistakes on a can of corn like that. 
     Basking in my brilliant improvisation as the squad’s swap positions between the dugout and grass, I take in the broader stadium landscape for the first time.  Which provides an amusing revelation.  A massive digital scoreboard in the outfield, behind the right-center bleachers, which put this unit outside my peripheral vision until now.  
       The far portion of this large screen broadcasts some goofy cartoon game, apparently meant to engage the fans during the brief half-inning break.  
     The more important information, situated closer to me, lists the entire line-up for both teams, in order, with defensive positions.  A scorekeeper’s dream.  
       This massive display must be new, as it wasn’t part of my adolescent viewing experience over half a century ago.  Even my old eyes can read the stark text.  Scribbling furiously, I hurry to fill out the player arrangement for both teams, before this gift from the gods disappears.  
       As it turns out, this helpful infographic will remain active the entire contest, updating individuals in real time, generally confirming, but sometimes contradicting, my own written documentation.  Along the way, I learn all manner of new acronyms, like O.P.S. and W.A.R., which I can somewhat extrapolate from standard metrics like batting average and home runs, but am never completely clear on.   

 

3rd Inning – Kid: 
        These tickets are amazing!  I can almost touch the grass in fair territory.  Plus, the players aren’t much further away.  At least one of them.  The right fielder.
        I watch nearly all Red Sox games on our small living room television.  At least I catch the beginning of every game.  Often, the culmination of these lengthy battles occurs well past my allotted bedtime.  Especially when Boston is on the road, playing American League rivals out west.  
       Having computer, tablet, or cellphone connectivity would be ideal, but such technology is not in the financial cards for our household, a luxury afforded to most of my spoiled classmates.
      At least, with the recent MLB rule changes enacted this season, games are progressing faster, allowing me to enjoy more of the action, before being sent to the sack.     
       If these are the cheap seats, as my mom begrudgingly admitted is all she can afford as the newly single, now primary, breadwinner, I can’t imagine what the fancy boxes ringing the infield are like.  I’m just happy to be sitting in the stands, watching the live action.
       This is my first time ever setting foot in the venerable Fenway Park, despite watching countless contests remotely, and knowing all the players, both current and past.  My life resolves around the Boston Red Sox baseball team.
       Having only been positioned here for 20 minutes, I’m already starting to appreciate the benefits of watching a game in person.  There’s all manner of activities which can’t be captured by even the most diligent broadcast camera crews.  
       The anticipatory hum of the capacity crowd.  The comingled aroma of tasty concessions.  The warming heat of the radiating afternoon sun.  The vibrant colors of the signage which rings the stadium. 
       With the home team in the field, our odd seating arrangement, in the outfield, but almost parallel to the foul line, does provide one key benefit.  The ability to view the numbers of most fielders, contrast red numerals trimmed in blue, easily readable against the white uniform backs.  
       The paper program my grandfather purchased, an archaic item which I didn’t even know they printed these days, quickly proves it’s worth.  I guess there’s a reason we keep these old folks around.
       One page, near the middle of this pamphlet, lists the names and numbers of the entire home squad.  I know pretty much everyone on the roster, an association based on face, physique, and moniker, the three elements which TV viewership reinforces.    
       My assigned observation point, adolescent frame kneeling on my folding seat, rather than positioned on my butt in the traditional manner, this raised perch allows me to quickly identify every Red Sox player on this near side of the diamond.  The 1st and 2nd baseman. The right and center fielders.  Even the pitcher, though this assessment is more from memory of today’s starter than numerical identification.
      The far side of the grass and dirt in much harder to ascertain, not just due to distance, but also because of the awkward viewing angle, which offers up just these athlete’s left shoulders, as opposed to their direct back or front.  
        Maybe there’s a reason this post is considered budget accommodations in the stadium, despite being very close to ground level.  Still, I’ll settle for proximity over panorama.
       The more plays I watch, the more overstimulated I become.  There’s just too much to keep track of, between the dynamic action on the field, the spirited response from the fanbase, and the perpetual engagement of the multimedia systems.  
        My sensory bombardment crescendos on the last play in the top half of the 3rd inning, as a towering fly ball from the opposing hitter heads out towards the pole in right.  Straight in our direction.  
        The fielder, one of my many idols on the team, tracks the ball gracefully, gliding quickly across the grass, while never taking his eyes off the flying projectile.  I watch this chain of events, completely mesmerized.  It’s amazing how large and fast these professional athletes are. 
         The action culminates at the waist high, green fabric padded, wall.  The fence and line, dirt and grass, all converge in this area, making determination of fair or foul impossible.  No matter.
         A clean catch is executed in the voluminous glove, the bare throwing hand quickly coming down behind to secure the capture, just as my Little League coach has taught me.  Seconds later, the white orb is extracted from the brown leather.  Turning to head towards the comforts of the 1st baseline dugout, the outfielder nonchalantly flips the ball into the stands.  Directly at me!  
          I have a baseball at home adorned with the Red Sox text and insignia, on opposite hemispheres.  However, it’s not a real offering: tinted beige colored by the league-approved mud coating, with no individual team markings, but rather a shiny white plastic covering, and large silk screen logos.  
        I’m still mad we got stuck in traffic and missed batting practice; this is the best way to acquire an actual souvenir according to my mom.  Now is the time for redemption.    
        This generous act of donation must be because I’m wearing the same jersey as this popular player.  Not the official version, with thick embroidered logos, robust engineered fabric, and full front buttons, but instead a basic silk-screened cotton t-shirt.  Authorized merchandise is expensive.  Still, my dedicated fandom is clear.   
       Until the ball arcs past me, well above my outstretched reach, even standing tall atop the folding seat.  Turning in confusion at the betrayal, I realize that there are at least half a dozen other individuals with the same attire, all fancier and larger than me, in the rows behind.  Maybe I wasn’t the primary target for this toss.   
       I wonder how many baseballs are used in a Major League game these days.  It seems this sport’s namesake object is removed from use after nearly every play.  Between foul pop-ups, umpire’s discretion, new record removals, pitcher complains, and fielder discards, the young girl seated on a stool at the corner of the home dugout has a full-time job simply running out new baseballs to the ump. 
       While this circumstance definitely increases the opportunity for fans to get a souvenir, it clearly diminishes the rarity of such a score.   Not to mention all the pre-game warm-up home runs.  Hopefully another chance for a catch comes along before today’s contest ends.  I didn’t tote my glove all the way here for nothing.
      Though I’m clearly way too short and insignificant to catch this most recent souvenir, this series of events is still a memorable highlight of my short life thus far.    

 

4th Inning – Mom:
       Nearly halfway through the game, I’m finally starting to relax.  Today was supposed to be a fun and memorable event with the two most important boys in my life.  Not including the 9 gentlemen on the ballfield, plus their numerous friends sitting in the dugout.  My divorced husband doesn’t even register on this hierarchy scale. 
      Glancing right, I see find my father and my son engaged in some heated discussion, which involves in an old man pointing at a grubby sheet of paper, and a young lad waving a cracked cellphone screen.  This polarity in media formats now seems to pervade society.  
       They could be arguing about any manner of random topics: music, clothing, weather, food, movies.  However, given the current unique setting, and heatedness of the debate, I’m wagering on sports.  More specifically, baseball statistics.
      I’m stuck squarely at the center of this generational gap, able to function in both technological realms, while not purporting to be a master of either.  Which makes me a decent arbiter.  But a terrible advocate.  
        I’ll let this battle play out naturally.  Plus, I have much better things to do with a rare bout of free time.
      The initial layout put me in the middle of our trio of purchased seats, a greedy post I claimed in the interested of making this a perfect day.  Perfect turns out to be the enemy of good, a realization I’ve come to through via painful personal experience, especially in recent years.  I might still be married with better foresight in this regard.
       Between the elder’s perpetual trips to the bathroom, and the younger’s constant thrashing on any ball put in play, I’m now happy to take the inner post.  The overweight man in Seat #4 of Row G, clad in a jersey he likely purchased 2 decades, and 3 shirt sizes earlier, is looking like a more promising neighbor than he did when we settled in late to our purchased spot a few innings ago.
      With another deft assessment, I confirm my pair of charges are still engaged in their complex interaction: arguing, nurturing, learning, debating, and socializing all being indistinguishable.  Good!  I need a break from parenting, in every sense of the word. 
      Taking a deep pull from the massive wax paper cup of cola, through a long straw, both items selected by my son, I plop this hefty item back in the accommodating slot on the back of the molded green plastic backing in front, then turn my complete focus to the game action.  For the first time all day. 
     Based on my own female athletic experiences, as an ice hockey goalie, and a stopper in soccer, I generally enjoy defensive versus offensive prowess.  Conveniently, the Red Sox are in the field.  Commanding their home turf.  Something I have been doing on the ice, pitch, and household since teenager status was achieved. 
       Fortunately, we have our ace pitcher on the mound today.  Unfortunately, between the first stanza long ball allowed, plus multiple hits in subsequent innings, this hurler is clearly not on his game.  Still, using a bend but not break philosophy, the score remains locked at 1-1 here in the bottom off the 4th.  
       The afternoon, and the contest, is young.  But it seems like the locals are now finding themselves in another pickle, and not of the defensive rundown variety.  The #9 hitter on the opposing team just earned a walk, on 4 straight pitches.  
        Removing the multitude of protective gear this scrawny lad dons each at-bat, this pile of paraphernalia is passed off to the accommodating bat boy as the small player heads to first.  Maybe, if the chap had a little more meat on his bones, he wouldn’t need to use so much padding!  
        While this speedy shortstop’s batting average, bordering on Mendoza line, is inept, there’s one offensive talent which keeps this skilled glovesmith from being sent to the minors.  His speed on the base paths.  Which will quickly highlight a major fault of our starter.  The incompetence of this tall, gangly, right hander to hold runners on.  
         Delivering from the far side of the rubber, back to 1st base, puts the hurler at a substantial disadvantage.
         As if the cards weren’t already stacked against him, the new rule limiting mound disengagements seals the deal.  
       One meager toss to 1st, is proficient, but not productive, as the opposing runner easily gets back in safely standing up.  A rushed delivery to home, a fastball which ends up very high and outside, confirms the preoccupation.  Then, a nervous step off the mound, with no release in either direction, counts as another tally.  
        Now, our pitcher must deliver home.  Making the steal a foregone conclusion.  
       In addition to the pickoff ineptitude from our combatant on the mound, would-be base stealers have another built-in advantage this year.  Their target destination is now closer, albeit only by 4.5”.  Still, this small increment, roughly the length of an extended pointer finger, can be the different between an out and safe result.  
       New this season, the MLB bases have changed from a 15” to 18” square of compliant rubber, covered with bright white synthetic fabric.  While the dimensional decision was primarily made to promote safety, especially around the busy 1st base region where a lot of the game’s putouts occur, the enlargement also has an impact on speed.  Facilitating it.  
    Fortunately, home plate, with its recognizable pentagonal shape, remains the same.  These iconic plaques are imbedding flush in the dirt at all fields, making them harder to change.  Plus, adjustments to the strike zone are a step to far for most of this sport’s purists, as well as anyone looking to minimize strikeouts in an era where there’s already too few pitches put in play.
       On the next delivery, a looping curveball, which is at least a strike, the speedy stealer is soon standing on 2nd base.  At least this advancement clears the count of allowed disengagements.  Not that a pick-off in the middle of the diamond is any more likely.   
        Such conjecture doesn’t matter, as the opposing batter serves the subsequent offering, a slider down and in, directly into the outfield on a line.  The proficient runner, with a huge lead, easily scores the go-ahead run. 
       Our pitcher navigates his way through the rest of the inning, despite giving up another steal, and nearly balking twice, as a result of flustered rushing atop the hill.
        The Red Sox are now down 2-1, but it could be a lot worse.  Why is it that the stronger a pitcher’s deliver to home, the more erratic they are in nearly all other throwing pursuits around the diamond?  It’s probably better to simply keep opposing runners off the base path moving forward. 

 

5th Inning – Gramps:
       What a beautiful afternoon for a ball game.  The sun is now almost directly overhead, a lone orb of yellow in the brilliant blue sky.  Its rays are warm, but not overpowering, with a slight breeze providing gentle convective cooling.  Perfect!
       After completion of this upcoming half inning of at bats for the visiting team, this game will be official, per Major League baseball rules.  However, with not a cloud in the sky, there’s no chance of inclement weather shortening this contest.  Plus, the Red Sox need to claim the lead first.
        While I’m content simply watching the game, and diligently recording every minute detail in my scorebook, it seems like many others in the crowd, especially the younger folks, are much more easily distracted.  In between pitches, I glance around our section, noting the diverse cast of characters which represent the Boston fan base these days.
        The most obvious visual element is the eclectic menagerie of jerseys, many of which are completely new to me.  The bleachers at Fenway for a packed home game used to become a sea of white, with red and blue interspersed, representing the patriotic hues of this great nation we call home.  
        Now, while still heralding the home team, outfits offer up various neons: yellow, green, pink, and purple.  Plus, lots of mainly black jerseys, an odd choice for this sunny summer session. 
       Another wardrobe element irks me as I scan the crowd.  Why do people put their own lame nicknames on the back, and pick goofy numbers composed of multiple random digits.  Over the century-plus heritage of this franchise, there’s no shortage of famous players to honor.  Instead, I’m forced to sit behind “MEATSTICK”, with his selected “69” number: gold foil letters in a charcoal grey background.  This outfit seems more fitting for a motocross race than a baseball game. 
      The more I look around between pitches, the more my mental wanderings resemble an old man shouting at the clouds.  Which isn’t to far from the truth, at my advanced age.  Even if the sky is clear today, it doesn’t mean I can’t silently rant.
         Why is everyone on their phone?  Is it that difficult to pry oneself from global online connectivity for a few hours?  
        I’m all for documenting a special event, with a couple of tactful pictures, but recording the entire game, with voice over commentary, is definitely not necessary.  It seems like some folks these days are more comfortable observing life through a screen, as opposing to intaking the natural world in all its glory.  No wonder the beautiful game of baseball has fallen out of favor with the oft-distracted modern generation.  
       Fortunately, the rapid cadence between pitches limits my ability to observe and judge those around me.  Which is probably for the best.  My frustration likely stems from the fact that the Red Sox have already surrendered another run, on 2 hits, plus 1 walk, in this ugly half inning.  Which is still ongoing.
        A revelation from my diligent tracking of balls and strikes is how fast the game is moving.  This is the first year the Majors have implemented a pitch clock, a slight misnomer, as this rule impacts the batter just as much as the hurler.
        I heard descriptions of this process from the radio announcers during the first few weeks of the season, but watching the system live provides tremendous clarity.  Considering how many large digital clocks are now installed throughout the venue, primarily for the benefit of the players and umpires, it’s easy for common fans to follow along.  I’ve found 5 such readily visible countdowns in my stadium search thus far, even with fading eyes, and a fixed viewpoint.
       I was worried about this regimented cadence tarnishing what has typically been considered an organic, free-flowing, athletic pursuit.  However, every other major sport implements some form of time management to control game pace.  The play clock in football.  The shot timer in basketball.  The power play in hockey.
       Such monitoring was inevitably coming to this historic pursuit on the diamond at some point.  Apparently, this is the year.
      Based on my observations, the tally starts at 15 seconds, initiated immediately once the pitcher has the ball in his glove following the last relevant activity.  By the 8 second mark, halfway through the allotment, the batter must be settled in the box, and ready to hit.  From there, the mental and physical gamesmanship proceeds as usual, just on a compressed cadence.  
        The offensive player does get one time out per plate appearance, a motion which is decidedly unpopular.  Especially for the road team, as evidenced by the rash of booing which occurs every time such interruption in play is initiated by the raise of a batting gloved hand.
     To my knowledge, I haven’t witnessed any timeclock violations yet today.  Apparently, both parties are now fully accustomed to the new protocols after half a season.  The incurred penalty is supposedly a registered ball or strike, depending on the offender.  A harsh, but not draconian, consequence.      
       Right on cue, the opposing batter calls time.  The uproar is raucous, with the loudest jeers seemingly emanating from the colorful cohort, in every sense of the phrase, located in our right field stands section.  
       I look down at my scorebook, which shows a 2-2 count, with 2 out, and 2 runners on base.  A debatably high leverage situation.  
      During this short hiatus, I immediately confirm this circumstance on the big board in the outfield, that I’ve grown accustomed to leveraging, after just a few innings.  Apparently, the ball and strike tally is actually full, which justifies a little more hitting contemplation.  Maybe technology is a good thing in some elements of life.
     Predictably, the offender who caused the delay settles back into his post at the 10 second mark, and is quickly dispensed by a letter-high fastball.  The crowd erupts again, this time in ecstasy as opposed to agony.  
       Bravo!  I wish I could rise to salute this conquest, but my metal hip is already barking at me.  Simply logging a single bold charcoal letter in my notebook will have to suffice as my approval for the culmination of this inning.
   
6th Inning – Kid:
        I’m hungry.  I’m always hungry.  I guess that’s part of being a growing boy. 
       The past hour hasn’t been overly taxing from a bodily movement standpoint, aside from the 5 minutes of repetitive clapping during the Red Sox only rally thus far, which proved only mildly fruitful.  That’s why the local team is trailing 3-1, with this deficit being amassed over the previous few stanzas after battling back to even.  But my perpetual sensory stimulation is clearly burning some calories. 
        All this mental focus, and emotional excitement, is just as draining as biking around the neighborhood.  I need some sustenance.
      Like any child of a certain age, I’m a sucker for candy.  While my adult teeth have all grown in, aside from a few wisdom offerings way in the back, I have my entire life to destroy these.  No reason to make any sugar intake sacrifices at this early stage.  Thus, any sweet treat option is on the table, especially since I’ve been allowed to go shopping on my own.  My mother clearly doesn’t want to miss a single pitch of this live affair.
       I’m still learning the basics money.  So far, I’ve established that these seemingly useless pieces of crumpled green paper can actually be used to acquire things I like.  The problem here is that there’s just too many options.
        A quick sweep of the nearby booths on the concourse adjacent to our seats is telling.  These snacks are much more expensive than at the convenience store, with far fewer options.  Plus, one clear distinction.  Ever offering, at every stand, is at least tangentially tied to the squad which calls this stadium home.  
         Chocolates molded to mimic the iconic Sox footwear covering logo.  White cotton candy, stripped with the blue and red branding which adorns many players’ calves.  A curated candy collection, presented in Christmas stocking format, house by an actual sock.   
         In the end, I decide to select an item related to the head as opposed to the feet.  This decision is based primarily on the weather during this increasingly hot and humid afternoon.  Plus, my own sweet tooth preferences.  As it turns out, the collection of bills and coins my mom hastily handed me is just enough to cover this splurge.  
        Slowly strolling back to my seat, my diminutive frame, with eye level not above the shoulders on most meandering adults in the crowd, bobs to and fro.  I’m still waiting to reap the benefits of that growth spurt which most of my 6th grade counterparts have gone through recently.
        While my feet are focused on moving forward, anxiously seeking return to our assigned seat for live viewing, my arms are equally engaged, albeit in a much different pursuit.  
       My left hand cups a plastic bowl, burgundy in color, with my small thumb using the protruding flat surface for stability.  My right fingers grasp a hybrid spoon, made from some recycled wood material, which provides limited scooping capacity.  
        The ice cream is melting at an incredible rate in this warm environ.  But any weather conditions are better than a rainout.  I just need to find a way to eat this frozen cookies ‘n cream delicacy out of the miniature helmet in a timely manner.
        I’m not lacking on Red Sox memorabilia.  My entire bedroom is adorned with various knickknacks and trinkets.  However, all of these are hand-me-downs, not in the expensive collectable sense, but procured from thrift stores, garage sales, and even discarded refuse.  One jaded middle-aged man’s trash is another naïve young boy’s treasure.  This perpetual generational progression has fueled the proliferation of Boston sports team fandom for decades.  Some families have chosen their alliances more wisely than others.    
          A massive cheer from the crowd awakes me from my sugary stupor.  I strategically went to the concessions stand at beginning of the 6th inning, with the goal returning to see our boys bat.  Apparently, my perusing has extended beyond the half inning I planned to miss.  Unless there was an absurd defensive play.
        Taking a detour from the shaded hallway which rings this lower level of the park, I dart towards the first opening that provides line of sight to the field.  This access point dumps me out right above the Boston dugout, roughly even with the 1st base bag.
         Spotting an usher giving me an inquisitive stare, I hang back, standing right where the demarcation between shade and sun from the Loge deck above occurs.  This arbitrary and constantly moving line seems like the furthest point where this diligent employee will allow me to stand without requesting ticket credentials.   
        It only takes me a quick scan of the field to realize how superior any post in the section below is compared to our outfield, awkwardly angled, seating arrangement.  I wish we were positioned closer to home plate for many reasons.  
         First and foremost, nothing can happen in the deceptively complex game of baseball which doesn’t initiate from the mound.  Second and still significant, BoSox bench proximity could allow me to take all manner of close-up cellphone pictures of my home team idols. 
        But there’s a third, potentially even more tempting, draw to infield proximity.
     As a technology nerd, a product of the modern age, I now have another reason to focus on the battery.  The “PitchCom” system, an electronic device inserted into the ear, which allows communication between pitchers and catchers.  After awkwardly only allowing the backstop true control for the first year of this technology experiment, an archaic artifact of how the game used to be called, finally hurlers can dictate the action directly.
       To most, it seems obvious to let the person throwing the ball announce their next incoming offering.  But logic and simplicity are apparently not factors which the MLB governing body uses to make their rule decisions.  
       Even more intriguing than the direct communication link, which has always existed between the battery pair in some non-verbal form, is that 3 additional fielders on defense are allowed to wear such an instrument, which can only have reception functionality.  Still, how cool would it be to listen in on these intimate gameplay details, even if interaction isn’t allowed.
      This connectivity seems similar to the video game world which I spend so much of my free time in.  Instinctively talking to online compatriots over headsets, strategically aligning on our next maneuvers.  Our electronic display action, despite impressive graphic rendering functionality, still occurs exclusively in the virtual world.  These baseball players are operating live in real time.  What I wouldn’t give for one of those cool ear buds!
         Exiting my daydream, I realize there’s a Red Sox runner standing on 3rd base.  No outs, and no runs scored, thus far, confirm this was the first batter in the home frame.  And clearly the cause of the raucous outburst from the fans which drew me from the concessions’ catacombs.  
      However, the game action appears to be halted now, but not for any of the normal reasons.  It quickly becomes evident this is not a normal break, which are common in this still-sluggish sport.  There’s been an engineered stoppage.
      The actual cause of the interruption is revealed when I turn my attention to the only visual activity in the entire stadium.  Occurring on the enormous projection screen behind the outfield bleachers.  Capturing the attention of every person in attendance.  Including me.
      This display shows repeated views of a huge fuzzy orb impacting a two-tone, highly-contrast, surface.  It’s reminiscent of the pixilated graphics employed by original video game consoles.  I’ve never played such simple swill, but seen this old form of electronic entertainment chided in various online forums.
     To the common citizen, the repetitive sequence being projected to the stadium attendees is boring and irrelevant.  However, I know instantly from my religious baseball viewing regimen since before I could walk what is going on.  A review regarding a fair or foul ball, which traveled in the air past the 1st or 3rd base bag.  I’m apparently a real sports addict.
     Even at this intense magnification, it’s impossible to verify compressed white sphere contact with granular white chalk, the only occurrence needed to confirm the hard-earned triple.   
       Apparently, based on the lengthy wait, the officiants back in the New York City replay center are taking a very close look at this play.  I’m not sure how this adjacent East Coast metropolis, which has served as our archrival in many regards since the Revolutionary War, earned this exorbitant privilege.
        The MLB video review process is now nearly as old as me.  One would hope the multitude of kinks could be worked out by now.  Apparently, both of us have experienced some growing pains.  The operation feels like a black box, waiting for a hidden judge to come down with their arbitrary verdict.  
       Finally, the judgement comes in, as evidenced by the home plate umpire removing his headset, then slowly turning to address the crowd.  Touching an imperceptible spot underneath his navy-blue jacket, the microphone is activated, and the result released over the loudspeakers.
       “The call on the field stands.”  Even before the final “s” is uttered, those in the physical stands are already celebrating wildly.
      Excellent!  If this challenge had gone awry, our manager would be out of optionality down the stretch in this close battle.  Now, there’s a BoSox runner in scoring position, and another review in their pocket.
      Considering the impressive propensity of large LED televisions mounted throughout every nook and cranny of this venue, inclusive of audio commentary, one could probably watch the entire game in shaded sanctuary, gorging on unhealthy snacks, all while having much better feedback regarding the pitch-by-pitch proceedings.  
        However, I’m out of funds, and here to watch the live action.
       Taking a huge scoop of ice cream, which immediately causes my mouth to go numb, I tuck the miniature helmet in the crook of my elbow, nod at the accommodating security personage for her patience, then hustle back down the line to our assigned seats.  Maybe I can catch a replay of the recent offensive developments on the big screen.