WHEN IN ROME,
ROOT FOR THE BRAVES
Atlanta - JuLY 26, 2013
“The men looked on skeptically as I slithered past. Their wives were much more conciliatory, but seemed to share their husbands’ doubt.”
An important part of work travel is balance. Setting aside time to take in whatever local culture that fine city has to offer. It may be a concert, famous venue, nearby attraction, or in this case a sporting event. One warm, mid-summer’s southern evening, the spinning wheel of fate landed me squarely at a Major League Baseball matchup between the Atlanta Braves and St. Louis Cardinals.
Upon arriving at Atlanta’s bustling and always inconvenient Hartsfield International Airport, I found my day’s plans were cancelled. With the unbearable thought of a memorable night of staring at my hotel room’s ceiling, I became inspired. Let’s see, what would a quick thinking man of action do? Well, I’m not sure what he’d do, but I figured I’d go to Turner Field and attend my first Braves home game.
Since they weren’t playing my favorite team, I became resolute that I would REALLY go in style as a full-fledged Braves fan. How does one do that? Head to a sporting goods store, buy a Justin Upton #8 blue jersey, baseball cap, and even a foam tomahawk. I’d be ready when the crowd of 50,123 other fans started their chant!
StubHub parted with a single, Field Level ticket less than 10 rows from the Braves’ dugout in Section 113. I arrived early and because I was painstaking in building the perfect ensemble to convince everyone else I too was a regular, was now ready to be invisible. My only remaining task was a trip to the concessions stand for some authentic ballpark fare.
As I headed towards my seat, I immediately noticed the uneasy stares of the real season ticket holders around me. The men looked on skeptically as I slithered past. Their wives were much more conciliatory, but seemed to share their husbands’ doubt. As I quietly sat in my seat their designated spokesman began his investigation. “Who are you?” he demanded, “You aren’t from around here, are you?!” Uh oh, the jig was up and they were on to me!
I don’t know how they ever figured me for an imposter, but they did. With the ear-to-ear grin of a politician and all the bravado an outnumbered fella could muster I boldly responded, “I’M GREGORY, FROM ANAHEIM!” My investigator suspiciously snorted “I figured you weren’t from around here.”
WHAT? HOW? I had the jersey! I had the hat!! I HAD THE FREAKING FOAM TOMAHAWK!!! What could possibly have given me away? One of the wives suggested it may have been the veggie hot dog, pistachios, and bottled water on my lap. Curses, betrayed by a healthy lifestyle coupled with a clear misunderstanding of what truly constituted authentic ballpark fare in the deep South.
The spokesman proceeded to tell me how lucky I was to have his friend’s seat and they were the best in the stadium. He wasn’t kidding. These seats were amazing. They didn’t seem to mind this expatriated Angels fan disguised as a Braves fan either, just as long as none of us were Dodgers fans. Our mutual agreement had been struck.
Two nearby Cardinal fans were not as pleased. “How come you’re not for the Cards?” they contested aloud. I assured them, the next time I’m at Busch Stadium I would don an Adam Wainwright jersey and be their biggest fan. I confidently reasoned “When in Rome, you root for the Braves.” The Braves faithful approvingly chuckled at my retort.
Midway through the game something became increasingly obvious. Between each half-inning, the TBS cameraman would exit the Braves’ dugout and climb up to the top step. He would turn his camera directly in the direction of my two new buddies’ beautiful wives and they would be on the Jumbotron. EVERY commercial break.
What was I supposed to do with a once-used Braves jersey, hat, and foam tomahawk?
Well, it wouldn’t have been a true fan experience if I didn’t get some Jumbotron airtime of my own. From the 6th through the 9th inning I would slowly creep into the camera’s view where each time these two 6’ blonde southern belles would grab me around the neck, pull me towards them, and shout “THIS IS GREGORY FROM CALIFORNIA” into an unmic’d camera. I was in Heaven.
Well, our boys did it. My Braves outlasted the Cardinals 4 to 1. Now, time to be treated “to the sights and sounds of the #1 rated fireworks show in the Southeast.” Or so their sponsor hysterically screamed at the start of the team’s advertised “Friday Night Fireworks” show.
With a fully satisfying evening behind me, there was only one lingering dilemma to solve. What was I supposed to do with a once-used Braves jersey, hat, and foam tomahawk? No sooner had this thought rushed through my mind, but I encountered a father and his 10-year-old son leaving the game.
I interrupted their rapid gait, “Excuse me, excuse me.” The father and his young charge turned. I explained I was passing through town and although this gear served a great purpose I no longer had any use for it and would they like it. They impulsively responded, “Oh no. No thank you.”
Some coaxing convinced the father that it was a sincere offer with no strings attached. I simply would rather they enjoy it, than me placing it hastily in a landfill. The son begged, “please dad, can we take it?” The father acquiesced.
The moment I handed over the goods to this eager young lad was right out of a Madison Avenue production. A famous Super Bowl Coke commercial came to mind. You know, the one where Mean Joe Greene tosses his jersey to the kid that offered the tired warrior a cold soda? My exchange with this young fan was no different. It was both priceless and hilarious.
A warm, mid-summer’s southern evening was the perfect setting for this unforgettable night.