MLB Girls' Night Out and the Rain That Never Materialized
It started like any good family plan — via text.
Hey ladies, you want to get together for a girls’ night out?
Thanks to my sister, who had Philadelphia Phillies tickets waiting to be slurped up by four eager fans, the ladies in my family initiated MLB Girls’ Night Out. The plan: have fun sitting in a row, watching a major league baseball game, chat, laugh, snack, connect. Slurp.
Except — there was the weather.
The days leading up weren’t the driest you’ve ever seen, nor the warmest, and we all had bodies yet to adapt to the Fall/Winter cold. The forecast wasn’t heartening. Would the game be cancelled? If not, would we survive the cold rain?
Some of us frantically went to the store to load a cart with ponchos and anything we could think of to ensure we survived nine innings in conditions no one recommends for a girls’ night out.
We. Were. Worried. (Or, likely just the author of this post was.)
This is when planning, packing, questioning one’s personal fortitude, and a periodic lifting of the eyebrow to the question, “Will we make it?” comes in handy. By the time we left for the game, our car was loaded with backup: ponchos, blankets, jackets, leg warmers, gloves, hats — did I mention ponchos and blankets?
We were ready for a monsoon in the Arctic.
But worrying doesn’t always match statistical likelihood. As the start of the game inched closer, the number of times I looked at NOAA’s hourly weather graph increased to ten times per minute. The closer we got, the more likely the pile of clothing in the car would be unneeded. This is often how life goes, at least for the likes of me — a worrier. I like to pack every possible thing I might need in the event of the apocalypse, and I’ve gotten used to the lengthy ritual on both sides of a trip: packing and unpacking. I know every inch of my car’s trunk area, blindfolded.
The four of us drove from New Jersey across the river to Philadelphia to the ballpark. We brought dinner and tailgated in the parking lot — always a fun thing to do. It called up memories of the Army-Navy games we tailgated at in my youth — my dad was a West Point grad; go Army! Tailgating, if you don’t know, is eating a meal in or around your car in the parking area before a sporting event. You typically can’t bring outside food into a sports arena, so people load up together in a little pre-game picnic party. It’s festive x10.
We made our way to our seats and settled in. It’s been a while since I’ve been in such a massive space. I’d forgotten how much of a whirlwind an MLB game is. I always think of baseball as more subdued compared to other professional sports, but no. The amount of overstimulation built into that ballpark can’t be overstated.
Lines of screens ran along the edge of the stands, featuring messaging all through the game — advertising. An enormous screen hung over the outfield, the Jumbotron, featuring various stats and information on the pitcher and batter. There were other screens keeping track of the type of pitch just thrown, number of outs, and other useful numbers. Baseball is nothing if not stats.
My eyes and ears were inundated throughout the game.
I have hearing loss and tinnitus, so I take earplugs with me everywhere. They’re stashed in my car, drawers at home, purses, and laptop bags. I buy them in bulk. And still, the sound of the announcer, the music, the fans, and other noises set off to add to the game’s entertainment: constant sound bombs. Yowza.
Did I regret going? Never. Especially since I kept turning to my mom to share a repeated laugh as I told her, “I’m sweating.” So much for all that catastrophic weather prep.
It was wonderful, though. Precious time spent with family that I don’t normally get. As we grow older, we’re all so busy doing our own thing. I live far from my birth family. They’re in NJ/PA; I’m in VA. It’s a trek up there, so I don’t do it as often as probably would be wise. Life is shorter than I realize, even despite occupying the older age bracket now and knowing that life is far shorter than I understood in my twenties. It’s teeny.
We sat together in a row, commenting on the game, snacking and joking, hollering at the top of our lungs when the instructions came on the screen to clap and cheer like a nut. The Phillies were looking good for our first MLB Girls’ event. They ended up winning, and I thank them for this, though honestly, I didn’t care either way — but it was a plus. We left on an extra cheery note.
In one of the later innings, a man came to our section of the stadium with a big video camera propped on his shoulder, ready to film fans for projection onto the Jumbotron. As soon as a camera person arrives in your neck of the stands, you’ll see fans dancing and whooping it up in the hopes of getting caught on camera for their moment of fame.
The way it normally goes, fans will work hard to look film-worthy, and then when one of them notices they are indeed on the big screen, they nudge their friends in hysterical joy, and the whole group looks over, sees themselves on the giant screen, and freaks out with laughter or shock. If you’ve ever watched a pro sports game — in person or on TV — you know what I’m talking about.
Guess what? We were on it!
By the time we noticed, we had a few fleeting moments to freak out, and then — poof — we were gone. Still, that qualifies us for legitimate fame, no?
On the drive home, we calmed our nerves and bones with drowsy conversation. I slept well that night. I can’t wait to do it again, though hopefully we’ll visit a quieter locale. Or I’ll just bring professional-quality earplugs.
Being with others is imperative, they say. I agree. Girls’ Night Out #2 awaits our attendance. I’m there — rain or shine, cold or warm. I’ve certainly got all the prep.
Have a lovely rest of your week, friends.
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