From the third graders with baseball gloves, retired folks kicking back and talking smack and the good-hearted ribbing directed toward ol’ “Blue” and his strike-zone-of-the-moment — the atmosphere is great.
Recently, I was watching my Pokes in a nail-biter against the University of Texas.
It was the eighth inning, two outs with a runner on third and there I was — crouching over in my seat, hoping to see Luke Scott drive in the tying run.
I was holding my breath, crossing my fingers and waiting for the UT pitcher to throw it down the pipe.
He started going through the motions of his wind up and as I hum the fight song to myself, I look up and see — breasts?
Wow — and just when you were about to toss the paper aside and say, “There’s never anything exciting in here.” The girls will continue reading, because they too, get annoyed with other females who “have it and flaunt it,” and the males will keep reading just because they will be able to read the word “breasts” over and over.
First of all, let’s set the record straight. There are three things I can live without.
1. The Kathie Lee video library.
2. A New Kids on the Block reunion.
3. Breasts flopping about at sporting events.
My pre-game ritual consists of hurrying home as fast as possible and changing into a comfy sweatshirt and jeans.
It seems as though my female counterparts, however, did not get the invitation that said, “Beach wear OPTIONAL” before they hopped over to the ballpark.
Tube tops, backless tanks, and short black skirts really aren’t necessary components for an enjoyable game.
File the bustiers under “NEVER,” and unless you heard that Tommy H. was opening a nightclub on the diamond, then leave the leopard print pants at home, too.
Since I didn’t have a chance to do so at the aforementioned game, I wish to publically thank the girls who pranced around in front of me with their see-through braless tank tops. Girls, because of you, I didn’t get to see the controversial strike that was called. Eight innings I chose to sit in the chilly wind, wrapped up in my blanket and instead of a fastball, I got to see your breasts.
Don’t get me wrong, breasts are great. I have a set myself and I can honestly say that I’m quite satisfied. My breasts and I have a long-standing relationship that dates all the way back to sixth grade.
The thing is, I don’t care about yours. There are just some things that should be left between you and your plastic surgeon.
Believe it or not, I, and the others, come to the games to watch the field — not your bon-bons bouncing and toppling over your tank top everytime you make a gesture. If you feel that certain attire is essential, please don’t sit directly beneath me. I hear that there is a real good patch of grass outside the center field wall you can take advantage of.
If you were in attendance in order to get the attention of others, you succeeded. You were definitely a hit with the 14-year-old Little League team sitting in the fourth row, and the old geezer who sits up top could see you through the binoculars he brought with him.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the players are not watching you.
Believe it or not, they are trying to get some “W’s,” and the only round things they are looking at are baseballs. The other fans? Well, we just think you’re stupid. Since you usually show up during the eighth inning or so and talk on your cell phone the entire time you are there, we gather that you aren’t there for the routine flies and stellar pitching. Judging by your matching red purse, red tube top, white capri pants and platform sandals, you obviously got lost on your way to the grand re-opening of the Palladium.
Let’s make a pact. I vow to keep my sequined halter tops stashed away in the closet, if you promise to do the same. I will not wear my black go-go boots to a Saturday doubleheader as long as you follow my lead. Together, we can ensure that the proper parts are concealed in all the proper places.
Heck, if you hold up your end of the bargain, you can come sit in my section, and the hot dog and zip-up sweatshirt are on me.
One last bit of advice. When you see a sign outside the stadium that says, “Omaha or BUST,” it isn’t a request to see your gems.
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