by Joe Schiappa

First Inning – You have a long history of mismanaging your time. When you arrive, your phone buzzes to remind you about a tele-doc appointment with a urologist. You can’t afford the no-show fee again because you blew all your money on these baseball tickets. You make up an excuse to your friends and then wait three hours in your hot car in the doctor’s virtual waiting room, only to find out you need to be in person to confirm a kidney stone. This time blunder has also happened with movies in the theater and radio station-sponsored outdoor concert series. 

Second Inning– You have an impulse buying problem. You left your seat after the first inning to use the bathroom, and now you are holding a bagful of Detroit Tigers pennants as Christmas gifts for no one in particular. You realize you are close to rock bottom (rock bottom will be at a merch table at your nephew’s lacrosse game). Rather than shamefully return the $137 team-branded trash to the gift shop, you slink back to your frequently repossessed Honda Sonata and head to the closest Home Goods to relax and reset. 

Third Inning– You want to expose your child to sports immediately so they aren’t terrified when forced to play in a fifth-grade physical education class. However, they are only two years old. They have not sat longer for half an episode of Bluey, and they immediately poop their pants. Ten minutes in, the smell is so bad your entire row starts violently gagging.  You change your kid, but they won’t leave the bathroom without slamming the Koala changing station up and down two hundred times, violently dislocating it from the wall, and bursting into tears. You run with your kid over your shoulder, scrolling your phone for tickets for next season’s NBA games, before anybody can discover the damage. 

Fourth Inning – You are a rule follower. However, your “wild and spontaneous” friend has convinced you to move to the most expensive seats behind home plate. They’ve been empty for three innings, and the usher said nothing as you sat down. Bottom of the fourth, the CEO of Nestle Chocolate and his adult son show up in matching pink polo shirts and boat shoes and glare at you. You turn fifteen colors of red while your friend gets into a screaming match with security guards about “generational baseball privilege.” You’re put in a glorified closet labeled “Beer Seller Breakroom and Stadium Jail” and call an ex-boyfriend you called a deadbeat to post bail.

Fifth Inning -You are patient. You have been in a line since the first inning for sausage and peppers created by celebrity chef Bobby Flay. You have a one-sided beef with Flay since he embarrassed your Grandmother thirteen years prior by making a better version of her legendary cherry on his show, Throwdown.  You finally get to the front and realize Bobby Flay isn’t serving the sausage and peppers. You cry in rage. You tell your church group you’ll sit on the bus until the game ends. 

Sixth Inning – You like to try new things! You gave it your best shot, but baseball is boring. You hack into the mainframe of the JumboTron and throw up an episode of The Office.  Being at a game finally becomes enjoyable, but the NSA drags you out of your seat, and you are arraigned on cyber hacking and put on a no-fly list for the rest of your life. 

Seventh Inning – You are a Pure Barre class fanatic. You’ve stayed this long because you have heard a “stretch” happens after the seventh inning. In your mind’s eye, you envisioned it as a professional lead exercise led by the Yankee’s head physical therapist. You even thought it might be able to apply some tips to your pre-run warm-up. The stretch happens, and you can’t believe it.  You angrily head to the subway and pull a hamstring. 

Eighth Inning – You are so excited. It is the bottom of the inning, it is tied, and the bases are loaded. A cliche but one worth being a part of! SMACK! A home run by your team! The ball soars through the air, and you see it coming. It’s yours! And then darkness. You wake up from a coma three months later with a long beard, a catheter, and a fiancee you don’t remember.

Ninth Inning – You played baseball in high school and were a walk-on at Suny Oneonta. You are now forty and want to give baseball another try. You pour over data and buy a seat at Yankee Stadium with the highest probability of a foul ball. You wear a full uniform and bring your glove, hoping to catch a ball and throw it back so the team sees your talent and invites you to play. You arrive, and in front of you are three other middle-aged men dressed in full uniform with gloves. In quick succession, all three catch foul balls and throw them back. The Yankees manager gestures to them to come down to the field and has them all sign contracts for thirty million dollars. They are put into the game immediately. All foul ball comes your way, and you miss catching it! The whole stadium boos. You leave the stadium and lie face down in the parking lot, hoping the out-of-town team bus runs you over and splatters you all over the parking lot. 

Ten Innings Plus – You are a die-hard fan. Even though most of the stadium has emptied and your friends have left, you are glued to your seat until a winner is called. The clouds suddenly part, and a ray of light shines on you. Babe Ruth himself descends from Heaven and reaches out for your hand. He promises you eternal life playing ball with all the greats. You smack his hand away and tell him you still have half a chicken finger left and fifteen bucks riding on the home team. The Great Bambino points his finger at you, and a streak of lightning hits your chest and kills you instantly. You spend eternity on a cloud listening to Babe Ruth’s stories about which stadium has his favorite hot dogs, never knowing who won that night.