The New Britain Rock Cats (Double A farm team of the Minnesota Twins) have three stadium personalities—Rocky, Blooper, and Lucky. Rocky is a big gray rock cat (?) in a Rock Cats uniform. Blooper is a fat green walrus (?) in a t-shirt. Lucky is their stringy blonde emcee—a poor man’s Ryan Seacrest. They run wild in the stands, hugging kids, signing caps, and high-fiving. Between every inning they participate in events on the field, events like Musical Toilets, Strike It Rich, and Fat Boy Race (different than Oversized Clothes Race, where there was a very fat contestant).
The kids were having a great time. They loved R, B, and L, and they loved screaming. Special visitors from Newington Elementary’s fourth grade class spent the entire game yelling, “We need a pitcher, not a belly itcher, we need a pitcher, not a belly itcher,” regardless of who was pitching, regardless of whether or not a pitcher was present. The family of seven (seven!) in front of me consumed all kinds of ballpark treats, writhed, squealed, and constantly switched seats. At one point, the two-year-old, Susie, slipped down headfirst in the crack of her seat, reached through and grabbed onto my toes. She stayed like that, possibly stuck, possibly having a good time, until her older sister pulled her out. Susie looked up at me, snot sliding down her face, and smiled, then put her hand in her mouth.
The grownups were also having fun. “Bourn, you pussy,” “Fleming, you fat fuck,” “IDIOT, IDIOT, you fat IDIOT!” But the children in front of me were sympathetic. “Number two must feel bad,” whispered one to his father. “I feel bad for him, I bet that hurts his feelings.” His father smiled and put his arm on his son’s shoulder.
The stadium has a 6000-fan capacity and was about a third full the night we were there. It was a 6:30 p.m. game and by the fourth inning the sun had set and the air was chilly. It smelled like baseball, like hot dogs and candy, like grass, like beer and a little bit like sweat. The field was velvet green, the uniforms white like fake teeth, and the world beyond the stadium a soft, shapeless black. The stands were sprinkled red and navy with Rock Cats caps, slightly too big for the pumpkin heads of their dirty eight-year-old owners. They played “Mambo Number Five” and “Come On Ride the Train (Woo Woo)” and every time a ball sailed foul over the wall, the loudspeaker made the “Bwowowowaaoaoaoao (crash)” sound. Every player had a jarring hip-hop theme song.
Throughout the game marched a tireless parade of entertainment. After the first inning, there was Musical Toilets—as I mentioned—in front of the away dugout (the Reading Phillies). After the second inning, there was Strike It Rich. After the third, a toddler raced Rocky and Blooper from second base to third. After the fourth, there was the Fat Boy Race where they put a couple kids in sumo wrestler suits and spun them around and make them race each other. One of the kids fell over right away, but the suit bounced so hard off the ground that for a moment his entire body was perpendicular to the field with his helmeted head grinding into the dirt. Then, after the fifth, “Shave Cream,” “Body Spray,” and “Mousse” raced one another across the outfield. Then the t-shirt throw and the flipper race and the quiz about what causes brake problems. At some point every person in the stands won a free gallon of windshield wiper fluid.
Oh, also the game was good. The Rock Cats pitcher was throwing 96 mph at times, and they took a 3-3 game into the tenth inning and won. I found it difficult to concentrate on the game with the constant circus—but, after all, they’re the double A affiliate of the Minnesota Twins, and I don’t care about them.
Except for their inexplicably evil logo, the Rock Cats are a nice team with a nice stadium and a nice atmosphere. Half lost in the blackness behind center field, weeping willows loomed like bashful mammoths, swaying imperceptibly in the fluorescent glow. Their vines were the clean green of spring, a green that stood out above the dizzying wash of advertisements covering the stadium’s walls. I re-tucked the corners of an extra sweatshirt around my knees and stuck my toes into the crack of the seat in front of me, hoping Susie might keep them warm. Everything in baseball is a little brighter, sharper, and better. It’s probably the lights, but still.
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