"A hot dog at the ball park is better than a steak at The Ritz" -Humphrey Bogart

I am not a sports fan. Although I grew up in a large, Irish Catholic family, with lots of uncles who insisted we sing “Fly Eagles Fly” after saying Grace on Christmas Eve, this love of all things competitive did not pass directly on to me.


 

Whoops

In fact, I know so little about sports that one night at Amada, when a handsome blonde gentleman came in and requested to sit in a certain section of the restaurant, I smiled apologetically and told him it was unavailable at the moment, but that I’d do my best next time he came in. He graciously nodded, and followed the hostess, who returned, wide-eyed and said incredulously “I can’t believe you just told Chase Utley he couldn’t sit there.” I stared back at her. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that was Chase Utley!”  Aaaaaaand, I’m an asshole.  (Chase, if you are out there: Really sorry about that. I Google Image-ed you, so it won’t happen again)

So no, I did not get drunk, take off my clothes, climb traffic lights, riot or destroy anything around me when the Phillies won the World Series a few years back. I was pretty sure an “outfielder” was a mathematical term for something on a graph. And, for my limited knowledge and attention span, baseball is about 7 innings too long for me to watch on TV.

But Aaron seemed convinced that it was “un-American” or something for me never to have been to a baseball game. Point. Counterpoint: After surviving without pizza for 4 years of college, isn’t it just cruel and unusual punishment to take me somewhere where beer and hotdogs circulate like currency? I had him there.

Citizen’s Bank Park, home of the Philadelphia Phillies, had other ideas, however. My friend Phil, who, although he himself is a lover of gluten, is constantly on the look out for gluten free spots for me (and thus, well-deserving of a blog shout out and big thank you), works at the park and informed me excitedly that things were changing for glutenless Phillies fans. Aramark, the company which handles the concessions for 14 MLB teams and 10 minor league clubs, has taken a personal interest in expanding their market to include gluten-free products at many of their ball parks and other venues. Kudos, guys.

And so, I donned my new Cole Hammels t-shirt (I figured, I hadn’t offended him yet) and wound up at my second Phillies game ever (the first one doesn’t count- it was freezing cold, it rained, they lost 0-9, and we bailed halfway through).

Our first stop was the South Philly Market, located behind Section 128. They have gluten-free beer and cider, as well as hot dogs on gluten-free buns. The buns come right out of the bun warmer and are soft and textured to perfection, just like, I imagine, a ball park hot dog should taste. “I want a beer,” I said, surprising myself even.  I typically pass up the gluten-free Estrella Damm Daura or Redbridge that Aaron sometimes buys to cook with, instead preferring a glass of white wine or a mixed drink. But something about drinking a beer there just seemed so… right. I got my hotdog and plastic cup, loaded up on the condiments and napkins, went to my seat and thought I am eating a hot dog and drinking beer. I felt downright American, damn it.

And Bogie was right. It was the best hot dog I have ever tasted. There was just something about being a part of this crowd, lost in a sea of red and white-clad fans, all cheering for the same team which, although I knew nothing about, I felt strangely… loyal to..., eating a hot dog and drinking my beer just like everyone else around me. For me, that is one thing that I really miss. It sounds so silly, doesn’t it? Doing what everyone else is. Like something your mother warned you against. But it is oddly comforting to experience this sameness again.

I still got lost somewhere around the 6^th inning, was excited when it was announced that Brian Wilson would be pitching until I realized that a) he was not the bass player from the Beach Boys and b) he played for the other team, and almost got smacked in the face with a foul ball because I was busy taking pictures of my hot dog. Oh, and they lost. But honestly, I had an absolutely amazing time. I get it now, the whole “America’s past time” thing.

I even waived at Chase Utley from our seats behind the dugout, but he pretended not to know who I was. I guess I deserved that.