Blogs | Ethan Shorey

It was quite a ball game with my scurvy pirate

Going to a baseball game is so much better as a 4-year-old.

It was with a little trepidation that I took my son to his second Pawtucket Red Sox game last Saturday. Some of you may remember my experience from last year, when we barely got through the sixth inning.

It helped that this was the inaugural “princess and pirate night” at McCoy Stadium, a brilliant idea if you ask me.

“Are you a scurvy pirate?” asked Snow White as Wesley pushed through the gate.

Wes, his eyes wide, informed her that he was only dressed as a pirate and was still his true self.

“I’m a superhero!” he replied.

We made our way to our seats behind home plate. Unlike last year, he noticed everything right away, asking questions about what the players were doing and why the mascots were on the field. What’s a base hit? What’s a catch?

A couple innings in, we took off on a hotdog and pretzel run, and Wes was immediately distracted by the sight of a mascot.

This is where we talk about how mascots are truly underpaid. Wes couldn’t stop talking to "Sox," poking her nose and repeatedly assuring her of his undying love.

“Oh, you are so cute,” he told her. “I could just take you home!”

Instead of another near-meltdown after the fifth inning, Wes instead climbed onto my lap and asked if we could stay until it got dark. Every inning he'd ask again, and every inning I'd tell him again that we could stay until the end of the game. He'd respond with a flurry of hugs.

On one of our seven runs for food and bathrooms, I tried to introduce Wes to a fellow pirate for a picture. He avoided the pirate and raced straight for the princesses.

“I love their hair,” he said.

Last year, Wes was falling off his seat and crashing into the people in front of him. This year, he climbed up and down to get his drink from the cup holder in front of him and carefully fed himself ice cream without spilling.

There were a couple of mishaps, like the tears when I accidentally hit him in the head with the bathroom door and when he dropped his pretzel on the ground, but those were quickly forgotten. It didn’t even matter that the PawSox were shut out 2-0. Wes thought foul balls straight over our heads were home runs.

“Are you sure we’re going to come again?” he kept asking on the ride home.

“You bet, buddy,” I replied.


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