Memory Sketching

My first ever major league baseball game was less glamorous than my little league game that previous week. I had gone 2-3 with a couple of infield singles, and I had been plunked on the hip by an errant pitch. We had lost by a wide margin, but at least I had played every single inning. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same for the game between the big boys later that evening.

My father had received two free tickets to the Cardinals game against the Pittsburgh Pirates, a relatively normal game in a long season of baseball. The game started at seven, but I knew we would probably be a little late as my dad usually got home around 6:30. By the time we left the house, it was already seven. Driving away from our comfortable suburban brick house and into the doom and gloom of downtown St. Louis was a daunting experience for a third grader. As we drove farther and farther in, more and more graffiti lined the undersides and pillars of towering highway bridges and rundown factory buildings. As we exited the highway, I tried to look unfazed by the homeless people roaming the streets. Steam rose from the manholes covering the streets as if we were in Gothem City. I couldn’t wait until we actually got into the ballpark.

Unfortunately, my dad had rarely been downtown either, and did not know where to park. For some reason, he decided to pull into a random lot with no attendees, under one of the soaring highway bridges that I had marveled at earlier. Now we were directly underneath one of them, cars roaring by some 50 miles overhead, shaking the very beams that supported the concrete behemoth of a structure. There were some other cars in the lot, as well as a rickety coin slot machine where you were supposed to pay according to your parking stall. After deciphering the coded hieroglyphics from the chipping yellow paint, my dad put a quarter in.

It simply fell to the bottom. He tried again, and the same thing happened.

My dad shrugged, and chuckled to himself. “Uh-oh. I guess we don’t have to pay.”

By the time we maneuvered our way into the outfield bleachers, it was the fourth inning already. The entire game itself was hard to follow. The outfield seemed an awful long ways away, and every time a major play happened, everyone stood up and blocked my vision. As my interest in the game waned, my nervousness over our parking situation overtook my mind.

What happens if we go back there and our car is gone? What if there’s a huge parking ticket? What if there’s graffiti all over our car?

As my panic level arose, I grew fidgety.

“How long did you want to stay?” my dad, who wasn’t a fan of baseball asked after an inning.

“We can leave after the next inning…” I quickly replied.

We went back to our car shortly after the sixth inning. Our car was sitting there as we left it.