Hangin' With The Washington Press Corps
The life of a broadcast media personality must be pretty sweet. Via Six Degrees of Acquaintances (more like two in this particular case), I found myself lucky enough to be sitting in James Carville's seats at the Nats game yesterday. Next to us were Tim Russert's empty seats which I'm told go unused quite a bit because Tim, being a hardcore seamhead, doesn't enjoy being chatted up by people while he's trying to concentrate on the game. And two rows over, Mr. Bob Schieffer was taking in the Nats' series-sweeping win on Sunday. Not a bad life at all for these guys. Oh, did I mention that their seats are directly behind the Nats' dugout?
Now as a ticket plan holder all the way up in Section 406 with the plebs, I am familiar with the lottery process for season tickets and multi-game plans. How good friends Russert and Carville managed to "win" the eight best seats in the stadium right next to one another in their respective lottery bids is quite the stroke of luck, but I am certainly not complaining. The person in our group who scored the tickets used to work with Mr. Carville and by all accounts he is an extremely gracious and friendly individual. (Hell, I got to sit in his incredible seats for free so he is OK in my book.) And at least the tickets are actually owned by guys who are baseball fans as opposed to disinterested status-seeking local celebrities.
But the real thrill of yesterday was that being so close to the action gave me license to act like a kid again. I got to beg for the third-out ball every time the Nats came back into the dugout (one of which Nick Johnson gave me and I eventually gave to some kids a few rows back...I wish I'd kept it), watched Frank Robinson angrily mumble to himself while walking back from the plate after complaining about an excessively long pitching change, got a little too excited when Screech the mascot hung out in front of us, and made a fool of myself singing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" on the Jumbotron. A pretty good day for a 29-year-old with a severe case of arrested development.
I think that as I am confronted with "real life" issues like career moves, housing decisions, and potential batchelor permanence more and more, I turn to regressive behavior such as binge-drinking, dressing like a UVA frat boy during a vineyard tour (truth), and appealing for game balls and free ice cream at the ballpark as a defense mechanism. Shit, if this keeps up I'll be living in my old room at my parents' house by year's end.