Disclaimer: I’ve somehow managed to avoid writing a real life sports story for the past 2 semesters, taking the easy route and writing profile stories about coaches and feature stories on events happening during games. The following is the Lifestyle Editor’s sarcastic attempt at covering a sports game. No baseball players were harmed in the process of writing this critical review.
It was a scorching hot spring day in Pasadena when I made the mistake of going to Brookside Park for “America’s pastime,” baseball.
There were no angels in the outfield, no peanuts and crackerjacks, and worst of all, no 7th inning stretch.
The pants were baggier than a 90s hip-hop music video. The players were spitting more than they were hitting, and the crowd was as lively as my myspace account.
It would have taken the entire Mystery Inc. gang to discover something that made this game worth attending.
As I reluctantly traveled to Brookside park, I wrongfully envisioned a game lasting an hour to an hour and a half at most. Instead, I was robbed of three hours of precious life in what seemed to be a never-ending marathon of base hits.
If I had a dollar for every foul ball hit at this game, I’d have enough money to send another writer to cover a game for me.
The umpire made more wrong calls than a group of teenagers in a horror movie.
I cannot help but think of other more productive ways I could have spent my afternoon. For example, I could have:
- Watched “Titanic” on VHS and rewound it.
- Re enacted the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy.
- Given a mouse a cookie, along with all the other things he would have anticipated to accompany it.
- Violated the Brown Act with the College Council.
- Found that bitch Carmen Sandiego.
- Entered and won a twerk off with Iggy Azalea.
- Revived Lou Bega’s musical career.
I regret wholeheartedly the fact that I missed the opportunity to partake in any of the aforementioned activities, as I was stuck in my own personal hell.
The final score was 11-9, with the Citrus Owls slaughtering the PCC Lancers, but I could not care less.
Watching this slow, painful, merciless defeat of our team was as exciting as finding out Trump won the Presidency last year. One giant disappointment.
There were more people in the bleachers for this baseball game, three, than there were at the Syria protest on campus earlier this week.
The thought of covering another baseball game is scarier to me than any of the monsters I encountered at Monsterpalooza last week. In fact, I would much rather have gotten sucked into the abyss of the mysterious door on the fourth floor of the C Building.
The one positive take away from this game is the fact that it did indeed end. When the game concluded, I ran out of the park faster than Cinderella ran away from the castle at the stroke of midnight.
So this will be my one-hit-wonder, my first and last attempt to cover a baseball game.