Stadium Rats
Stadium Rats
By Travis D. Roberson
Rats complain of three-day headaches as if uncertain of the cause. Certainly not the lack of sleep, the 12-hour days. Rats don’t get home til two in the morning and when they slide their phones from their pockets and check the clock it’s 8:30 AM and they’re already back, prowling the tunnel beyond the employee entrance.
Rats : stadium rats : baseball season.
Rats stuff their aching feet into worn-out dress shoes (all black per uniform guidelines). To speak of sore heels and aggravated bunions is to elicit a challenge. “Oh you think your feet hurt? I did 22,000 steps yesterday.” This is the only place where some might consider 22,000 steps low. These fiery twinges and searing cramps, they are marks of pride—skin-deep totems of a relentless working spirit.
A lot of rats, they couldn’t care less about the crack of the bat or pop of a glove. This is about a paycheck, making rent on time, having enough in the bank account to cover your daughter’s orthodontist visits. Ask any rat where their allegiances lie in the 9th inning when it’s tied 0-0. That’s when they abandon any and all loyalties, devotees of whichever team will send them home for a short night’s rest.
Rats work the homestands. Some homestands fly by—five quick days over before a blink. But then there’s the 11-game stretches with no end in sight.
Here’s what rats dread:
– Tie games
– Extra innings
– Double headers
– The lingering eyes of upper management
Called rats because that’s how management sees them. Rats are many and rats are expendable. Easily exterminated fired, easily replaced. Rats wear name tags above their right breast but overlords pay no mind to these little marks of identity, the same way they ignore rodents scurrying across subway tracks on their way home. But that’s the way rats like it. The privilege of invisibility.
Rats start early, five hours before first pitch. By the 6th or 7th inning, you’ll see it—the fatigue they try to squash down so they can power through the day. When the 9th inning arrives and the stadium roars with triumph or upheaval, that’s when rats come alive again. Rats hear the same awful song that plays every time the home team wins and spring into action. The hungry and broke gather whatever food’s left behind, nibbling on it as it’s carted back to the kitchen. “Here’s some fries nobody ate. You want?”
Rats scurry from the stadium, duties complete. Summer air slaps them when they step outside, drawing more sweat than their bodies are willing to sacrifice. It’s a long walk to the trains that carry them home, the last thing their whimpering rat feet need. The air is redolent with marijuana and cigarettes. The perfume of jubilation, of making it through another day. A long homestand like this, rats take any moment they can to celebrate. Six more days, then a seven-day break. An eternity from now.
Empty seats on the train feel like a reward from God. Rats collapse into the hard plastic, prop their heads against the windows behind them. Eight stops and they’ll be home. Nine stops. Two trains and then a bus.
One rat to the other: “You working tomorrow?”
Rats try to answer but all they manage is a nod. This is sufficient; the other rat nods in return.
What will the rats do when October arrives and the season ends?
There’s talk of playoffs this year. The home team’s doing well, sitting in first place with a sizable lead. Then again, there was talk of playoffs last year but the team blew it in the final months. Rats take it as it comes. The prospect of a postseason is a bittersweet thing. As much as rats need the work, they’re also sick of it. Sick of privileged customers with their self-imposed authority. Sick of management breathing down their necks. But a longer season means more money, so they shouldn’t complain…right?
Travis D. Roberson is a New York-based writer originally from central Florida. His work appears or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Juked, Maudlin House, and a number of other publications.
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