Play Ball

Today is opening day for the Mud Hens, Toledo's minor league baseball team, and it's quite the social event downtown.

I share a set of season tickets with my newspaper's beat writer and his family's friends, four club-level seats behind the home plate net at Fifth Third Field. The walls of the club house and indoor-outdoor suites are peppered with dents from fly balls, a few of which have found our hands.

One also nearly found my dad's face once. He was standing along a suite exterior, stretching his back, when a shout alerted him to "objects leaving the playing field," as the warning signs profess. He ducked his head to the side just as the ball thwacked the concrete wall, right where his head had been, with a sound that promised it would have left more than a lump on his skull.

Apart from the occasional near-death experience, getting taken out to the ballpark in this particular stadium is immense fun. It truly is a family-oriented place.

The park is a green oasis right downtown, ringed by decent pubs and eateries. The food is pretty darn good inside the gates too, with specialty grills and carts offering better quality fare at better prices than any major league game. I'm spoiled by the club house concessions, but the masses below are closer to the yummy gyros. And anyone can get an entire batting helmet full of ice cream.

The promotions and between-inning contests are amusing enough, and summer weekends boast firework displays. Kids kick off the action with a shout of "play ball," and they get to run the bases after Sunday games. Great big JumboTron screens keep fans informed and engaged.  For a buck, you can get a birthday or greeting message played on them. The "Kiss Cam" always catches two guys on the opposing team, who sometimes play along with an exaggerated smooch.

My son Gabe, brother Andrew and dad Jim enjoy each
other's company before the start of an April 2011
Mud Hens baseball game in Toledo, Ohio.

There isn't a bad seat in the house. There is a special "roost" area with two rows overhanging fair territory, and picnic areas on club-level terraces and all around the outfield. The mascots, Muddy and Muddonna, dance on top of the dugouts and make rounds through the entire stadium.

Oh yeah -- there's some sort of game being played on the field too.

Mud Hens grow up to be Detroit Tigers, so we can have league-winning teams whenever we haven't been gutted by the parent organization. The players truly are Triple A: approachable by fans, aggressive in the game, and all-around good guys.

One of the absolute best things about this baseball park is the open fencing surrounding it. Anyone walking by can catch a glimpse of the game and feel a part of the community, even if they don't have a paid ticket. One section of the fence is a bronze statue of kids peeking through knotholes in a boarded fence, an homage to just how much people love the game. It was quite the scandal when one of the figures was stolen, but thankfully the little girl in overalls and an old-fashioned fingered mitt was reunited with her "Knothole Gang."

But you really don't need to like baseball to have a good time here. There's a gaggle of women who sometimes sit in my section, and they chatter and yammer through every inning, swirling their cocktails and laughing merrily at every shared story. They may sing along to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" or clap along after a home run, but they aren't there for the baseball. They are there for the warm sunshine and the amiable spirit of the crowd.

Kids are there for everything. There is a playground behind the black wall in center field, but a surprising many of them are content to sit in their seats and cheer for the Mud Hens. Grabbing a fat wad of cotton candy on a stick as the concessions hawker passes by helps a great deal. I'm pretty sure my son Gabe has been going all these years just for the food.

For this season, though, I'm on the DL. I might manage a few innings of an April game, wedging my pregnant hulk into my folding seat with the help of Charlie, the best usher on the planet. He always gives me a big hug, and we laughed when he felt it was necessary to transition from high-fiving Gabe to shaking his hand like a man.

But the rest of the 12 home games I secured will be sold off to friends and coworkers and whoever else will take them off of my hands. I've seen newborn babies at the stadium, but I don't think I'm cut out for that kind of commitment this summer.

I don't like baseball that much.