Ballpark

My daughter was watching Bluey on her mom’s phone. Sound on.

The stranger next to me – a woman I will henceforth refer to as “Dory” – understood the situation.

“First time?” Dory said.

I confessed this was my daughter’s first game and the stimulation was a bit much for her. We had needs.

“It’s my first time here, too,” Dory said. She flashes her “first-timer” card you get at guest services. “My first time in Kansas City, even.”

“And what, you just decided to attend a baseball game?” I asked.

Dory looked weathered, by the sun and, for good measure, life. But she still had a spark about her – like one who never tires of satisfying their curiosity. She donned a grey Stand Up to Cancer shirt with no team-specific paraphernalia. She was alone.

“Oh, I’m visiting all the ballparks.”

“What?! How many have you been to?”

“This would be my 23rd.”

“Ooh, nice. Which one is your favorite so far?”

“Oh, gosh. Probably Pittsburgh (PNC Park). It’s got that bridge and the skyline behind it. It just looks so cool.”

Dory had arrived in Kansas City from St. Louis by way of Amtrak. She was a New Jersey native, had just turned 50, was no longer with her long-time boyfriend, doesn’t eat meat, and doesn’t drink beer. She was supporting the away-team Mets.

I asked if she had any hard feelings about the 2015 World Series.

“Eh, I don’t get worked up about that stuff anymore.”

Dory learned everything she knows about baseball from listening to Mets broadcaster Tim McCarver. She plays on a coed softball team where the men make the women play catcher, third base and left field. She grew up playing short stop. She’s around 5-5 and could probably knock me over.

A vendor showed up with chocolate-drizzled strawberry kebabs.

“Should I get one?” Dory asked. “I am a bit hungry.”

She walked over to the vendor.

My wife talked to me for the first time in three innings:

“Enjoying your date?”

Gottem.

Dory returned with a kebab.

“OK,” she said. “Now this is my favorite ballpark.”

I told her where to spend her one day in Kansas City. I blew her mind when I tell her there is a Kansas City, Mo., and a Kansas City, Kan. She wanted to find a good picture of the skyline. I suggested the WWI museum. She recorded my recommendations in her notes app.

She said she was heading south – next to Houston and Arlington, Texas, to add more ballparks to the tally. Then she’ll think about heading back to New Jersey where she’ll need to figure out her work and living situation.

“I’ve always wanted what you’ve got here: kids, a family, taking them to see a game. Just wasn’t in the cards I guess.”

I looked over at my children. My daughter adapted to her environment and clapped with the rest of the stadium. My son was a maniac, screaming Bobby Witt Jr.’s name louder than anyone in the section. The in-laws were seeing the game from the eyes of innocent youths.

“I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out,” I said. “I didn’t think I would be here either. I guess I got lucky.”

“Hey, days like this – they’re what the ballpark is all about.”