Take Me Out Then and Now
Take Me Out Then and Now
By Marilyn Woods
I hooked my pudgy finger through one link of the backstop, my nose through another, peering intently at the pitcher over the ump’s backside, the squatted catcher’s mitt, and the batter’s bat. My dad, just home from the war, full of optimism and starting on beers, pulled me back to my front-row unreserved seat; peanut shells crunched under my feet. He loosened his striped tie and leaned in close as the second baseman made a crowd-pleasing leap to catch the soaring fly ball and retire the side. The fans in shirt sleeves and cotton print dresses roared.
Dad pulled me in close just as the pitcher and the second baseman met at the dugout in front of us. “Why’d he do that?” I asked pounding my father’s leg hard. “He spanked him.”
Dad chuckled at first and then explained how the pitcher was congratulating his fellow teammate on a great catch. “Teamwork is very important in this game, honey. They all work together and support each other—that’s what makes winning teams. Now pay attention—we’re up. Don’t miss the magic of the moment. “
That summer in that rural, minor-league stadium—Oiler Park in Tulsa—from my father I would learn many nuances of baseball from my father—good sportsmanship, teamwork, and focus. Also, about the special treats in Cracker Jacks, the molasses-flavored, caramel-coated popcorn snack. My first treasure, a tiny green plastic iron. Dad had hidden the box in his pocket to surprise me in the seventh inning stretch when we sang “buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks.”
Half a century has passed. Another summer night in July. I’m at a major league baseball game in San Diego. Calvin, my grandson, a tall drink of water like his great-grandfather, next to me in reserved seats, Section 212, fields my questions and tries to explain the Padre fans’ Swag Chain phenomenon. In the seventh inning, he puts his arm around me; we sway singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
All those summers ago, dad taught me the words; a rinky-dink recording of an organ version piped over a static-y sound system. A wooden fence enclosed the baseball diamond and a rickety billboard—Hudson, America’s “4-most” car—rose in center field. Beyond, cows grazed in a pasture.
Top of the eighth, Calvin rushes for refreshments; I stare beyond the neon extravaganza surrounding Petco Park—high rise apartments, office buildings, and construction cranes building more buildings behind giant banks of stadium lights in front of one of the biggest video scoreboards in MLB—one-hundred twenty-five feet of wild pixels! State of the art displays—electrifying instant replays of swag-chained Fernando Tatis Jr.’s dizzying dance moves and epic gymnastics, umps and players up close and personal on the job, jumbotron shots of attention-starved fans, Toyota, Sony, Sycuan Casino in exploding living color.
The scoreboard astonishes and confuses me. Pitching speeds, styles, stats. Where to look for the simple strike and ball count? The score? With patience reminiscent of my father’s, my grandson ushers me into twenty-first-century baseball. “What’s a walk-up song, Calvin?”
“Each player selects his own walk-up song to amp them up while they’re on deck. It’s as important as their bats and gloves.”
At this, I asked, “what would be your walk-up song?”
“’Zombie’ by Fela Kuti.” I let it drop.
Throughout the rest of the evening, I found myself wondering about a possible walk-up song for myself. ZZ Top’s “Tush,” “Honky Tonk Woman,” “Boot Scootin’ Boogie crossed my mind…
The hot dog options overwhelmed me also. I opted for bratwurst and a glass of Chardonnay. Calvin, sushi and a Cutwater Tiki Rum Mai Tai Cocktail, a far cry from my Dad’s Lone Star Long Neck. Back then, the close play at the plate and the smell of buttered popcorn the focus; now it’s the race between the Italian hoagie, Tandoori chicken pizza, or carne asada nachos.
Baseball. In ways, a quiet pastime. A gentle game best played outdoors. Dad could be quiet. And gentle. His great-grandson too. Both serious students of sports. Especially, baseball, America’s pastime.
My father, an exemplary Greatest Generation guy learned from the game. Calvin, digital native Gen Z college graduate on the brink of life, will too learn baseball’s significant lessons—the value of a strong work ethic, the merit of teamwork, the nuances of dealing with pressure, failure, and success. And most importantly, don’t miss the magic of the moment.
Marilyn Woods is an artist, published author and educator. She is also a docent at The San Diego Museum of Art where she trains new docents, gives tours and speaks to community groups. Raised and educated in Texas, she began as a broadcast journalist. She and her husband had careers in radio and broadcast syndication, which led them to live in major cities around the country, including LA, New York, Cleveland, Washington, DC, and Dallas. Following a longtime dream inspired by a Henri Matisse painting, Luxe, Calme et Volupté, the pair gave up big city life to purchase a property in Pauma Valley, California, population 980. There they lived in an orange grove, planted a vineyard, built a winery and learned to be farmers and winemakers. Her book released in 2020 during the pandemic, The Orange Woods – Seasons in the Country Artfully Lived, tells of their magical twenty-year adventure. She continues to write on her blog, Life’s Second Acts. Learn more at marilynwoodswriter.com.