Since Matt Vasgersian asked during last night’s Cubs-Cardinals broadcast on ESPN, there are absolutely more obnoxious at a ballpark than bachelorette parties.
Rain, for starters.
”Dilly dilly” guy was pretty obnoxious. There’s a reason why we cheered for the usher.
People who won’t stay in their seats and watch the game are pretty bad, although they will be the inspiration for my someday-best-seller “Sit The F*!k Down: A Manifesto For The Ballpark.”
There are other things, but I’ll stop there, and leave you with the thought of a baseball announcer thinking that celebrating one’s upcoming nuptials at a baseball game is “obnoxious”
I’m assuming he’d feel the same way about a bachelor party … right? Right?
My bachelor party was at a ballpark, watching a team (Albany-Colonie Diamond Dogs) at a ballpark (Heritage Park in Colonie, NY) in a league (Northern), none of which still exist.
We didn’t make a big deal out of it … no antics or special announcements. I just wanted to go to a game with the guys, so that’s what we did.
Afterward, we went to TGI Friday’s for food. Wild and crazy guys, we were not, or at least I wouldn’t let them be that night. (I told them they were free to do whatever they wanted after we were done.)
As we were eating, something weird was happening across from me, where my grandfather was sitting next to, and seemingly conspiring with, my best friend Chuck.
It turns out that Chuck was checking out all the women who came into the restaurant, and enlisted my grandfather to help.
Because of course he was … Chuck was that way. He was the life of every party, the center of attention who pulled everyone nearby into his orbit.
I was remiss letting last weekend go by without remembering the anniversary of Chuck’s death. It has been 14 years now (How in the world did that happen!?!?!?) and to this day, him dying at 31 makes me ask questions about certain things.
Grandpa died the day before Thanksgiving, 2013. He was 84. My grandmother’s still doing well.
I’m sure that when Grandpa arrived, Chuck was in the greeting party, for there were hijinks to pursue. And I’m sure, like the pastor at my wedding, where Chuck was an usher, whoever’s running things upstairs is ruefully shaking his head, incapable of getting angry.
And I have no doubt that Chuck had already assembled a large crew. I wouldn’t put it past him that Mickey Mantle was there somewhere.
Because that was Chuck.