  “You can have them,” my friend offered. “No, that’s OK,” I replied. “I’m serious,” he said. “They’re yours.” “We’ll be fine,” I said. “We already have tickets.”
“But these are 20 rows behind home plate. They’re perfect.” “I know, but like I said, we already have tickets.” “Did you hear what I said?” my friend asked.
“Twenty. Rows. Behind. Home. Plate. It doesn’t get better.” And so the conversation went the day I decided to take my volunteer Little Brother to his first-ever professional baseball game. It was a perfect night. The peanuts were fresh, the grass was recently mowed, the hot dog buns were soft (not too soft—not mushy—just right). Ryan (not his real name) was 10 years old; I was almost 30. Without a doubt, going to the game was a big deal. Why? I wasn’t sure, I wasn’t even that big a baseball fan myself. But surely every kid should have a chance to go to a real baseball game. To commemorate the event, we even went to the local sporting goods store earlier in the week to try on some baseball mitts. I tossed Ryan one of the smaller-sized gloves, then continued rummaging through the aisle, looking for a baseball.
“How’s it fit?” I asked. He didn’t answer. And by the time I turned around, I understood why. Instead of putting the glove on his catching hand, he had put it on his throwing hand. The wrong hand. I couldn’t believe it. Ten years old and he’d never, ever worn a baseball glove. So now it’s the night of the game. The sun is about to set at Camden Yards, the home of Maryland’s beloved Baltimore Orioles, and I’m ready to show Ryan how real baseball is enjoyed.
I buy a hot dog, grab a program and even pick up a bag of peanuts. Sure, I want to give him the full experience, but I also don’t want to spoil him—which is why I cringe when Ryan asks me the allimportant question: “Where are our seats?” continued on page 5 |
