GREAT AMERICAN PASTIME

I had been in Alaska for nearly two months and it was time to start thinking about the road home. The fish had either been consumed or in the freezer, a ton of photos were in the can, had seen so many bald eagles they didn’t draw a second glance. All that was left was to have dinner with some friends, get a good night sleep and pack the truck. The difference going back was that I wasn't pulling a camper. I didn’t have my bed on wheels; foraging every night for a place to sleep. The first 900 miles retraced the original route but after that it took a long, low swoop through British Columbia and the Canadian Rockies, down into Montana, not knowing how I’d find my way back from there. 

With just a few days left, the weather was balmy and we went to the ball game. Alaska has a Baseball League with six teams. It’s a developmental league for college athletes who come north for the summer and live with sponsor families. Anchorage has two teams, the Buc’s and the Glacier Pilots. They were playing each other; when they do that they take turns being the home team and last night the Buc's had the home dugout on the 3rd base side. We had box seats, behind the 1st base dugout. 

There were several young women next to us who took fan enthusiasm to a new level. They knew all the players by name, where they were from and kept up a stream of chatter and encouragement. "Hey Collin, you can do it." "Come on guys." "Yea, yea; alright." Directed at the players, but it would translate more accurately, "Hey boys, look up here, look at us." I had a movie flash-back, deja vu moment. It was Bull Durham, all over again. The hometown girls were putting a rush on the new boys in town. It reminded me of an old Jack Lemon movie. There was one nice looking girl and her friend who was on the south side of way too many calories; they just loved baseball. They liked all the Blue-shirted Pilots and in particular, the Buc’s. #33, a tall kid named Collin from California.  None of the players looked up or showed any sign that they were listening but the girls kept it going without a rest.

In the end the boys in blue won 8-5 and they were happy, high 5’n and fist bumpin’. The girls transitioned straight from baseball to their smart phones, texting, thumbs a blur. All the way down the stairs and out to the parking lot, they never looked up. I played in college but there were no hometown cuties behind our dugout, just a couple of old guys smoking cigars, with clip boards and stopwatches. I think there should be a Summer Texting League for young women. Junior High boys could cheer from the bleachers and of course the girls would ignore them.