Joyride III

Rolling down the hill is forbidden. But my kids do it anyway. There are no lawn seats in the big leagues. But the sloped grass on the edge of the outfield at First Energy Field is what makes the Lakewood Blueclaws’ games so much fun.
A few summers back, my four kids and I began a seasonal rite of passage: a voyage through the Phillies’ minor league system. Lakewood, Reading, Allentown and new this year for us: Williamsport. Explaining the minor leagues, I said, “The Phillies are like the parents and these are their kids.”
There was a kindred club for each kid. As the oldest, 13-year-old Kameron got to be triple A. Josh at 11 was double A. And lastly, 8-year-old twins Elijah and Madeline were single A.
Kameron, Josh, Elijah and Madeline had been to Citizens Bank Park many times to see the parents. They certainly loved the helmet sundaes and giveaways. But there was always something stodgy about spending a Sunday afternoon with the folks.
Suddenly, it was a Tuesday morning in Reading as camp kids were bused in by the stadium load. No one takes a field trip to the Bank.
“You can pay if you want,” said a parking attendant. “But I am sure you can find a free spot over there.” What? They weren’t going to try to drain every last dime out of me?
I think my kids’ only regret was that they were there with me – not a teacher or camp counselor. We bought special seats in the section that would be doused by fire hoses between innings – something only a kid could love.
Madeline and Josh fluttered toward the hoses seeking as much soaking as possible. All four kids were shocked when they asked if they could walk around the stadium by themselves. I said, “Sure, just come back here when you’re done.”
They marveled at the swimming pool in the outfield – as other kids splashed around with their special wrist bands. But when you have four kids – any upgrade has to be quadrupled. So admiring was as close as they got.
Allentown brought a mini-scandal when we saw an Ironpigs’ double-header. They were selling tennis balls for a buck to a stadium full of kids. “Don’t let that ball get on the field,” I said. My three boys were careful for a few minutes. Then inevitably the tennis ball ended up in centerfield.
All of us, me included, acted like kids who had just broken the neighbor’s window with a homerun ball. I pictured us being dragged out of the stadium by armed security.
But the ball just sat there. No one realized, not even the centerfielder. It got silly as we waited for someone to notice. But that’s the joy of the minor leagues … whimsy is still allowed.
I never made it to a minor league park as a kid. But I could get free Phillies’ tickets in a package of Phillies’ franks.
Veterans Stadium was so cavernous – a package of hotdogs was all it took. I had a Phillies’ ticket agent tell me recently that her hands would become sticky with the hotdog juice that had inevitably splattered on the little plastic vouchers. “This was before we had hand sanitizer,” she noted.
But it was never the homeruns or triple plays that touched me when I went to a game as a kid. It was the quirky moments that were framed by hotdog juice.
I wonder if that tennis ball is still on the field.
Keith Forrest is an associate professor of communication at Atlantic Cape Community College. His late mother, Libby Demp Forrest Moore, wrote the Joyride column for this newspaper for 20 years.