1. Park on 10th Street, a few blocks south of Pat’s and Geno’s, because the parking costs more than the ticket.

2. Don’t try to sneak in early. You pay for the privilege of batting practice. You pay for the privilege of the organ music. You pay for the ability to rise in honor of our national anthem.

3. Mingle in the parking lot. Make your face familiar. Tell them your story: you are Jon, you are from Northeast Philadelphia, you love the Phillies, and yes, you’d love a lager if there’s one to spare. There will always be one to spare, but keep moving. We’re too proud to ask for another.

4. Keep your colors clean and generic. They will know you’re poor if your logo is fading. They will know you’re poor if you wear Abreu or Dykstra or Chamberlain. They will know you’re poor if you tell them you’re poor – if your stubble is long, if your brim is frayed, if your children seem too hungry.

5. Don’t ever be ashamed. Cracks exist to be filled.

6. Don’t tell your mother, or your wife. Your son(s) will know, just as you knew, and they won’t say anything to your mother or your wife, because they want to go again, and will know you can get them there.

7. Make your move when the anthem echoes through the parking lot, and everyone rushes to get inside before the first pitch. The customers are focused on what’s beyond the gate, the ushers are swarmed by the customers, and this is where you find the gaps. Don’t celebrate when you’re past the ushers, or when you find some empty seats. Save it for when that first run crosses the plate. Everyone will celebrate with you, but you will have more to celebrate.

8. Don’t make friends with a sympathetic and friendly and charming employee. This will put you at ease, and then she’ll be fired, and then your children will tell their mother, just as you did, because you know I could no longer get you inside. You knew we lost more than just the access.

9. You think that the handicap-friendly entrance in right field is the easiest sneak because that’s where we went, but it’s not the one I used when I went to games without you. I went to the group entrance, where I could pretend to be anyone but myself: a scout leader, a teacher, a gay, a husband.

10. If ever you have the chance to walk up to that booth and buy your ticket, and one for your child, or a few for your children, do it, and tell me how it goes, and look away when you see the man in the fading Scott Rolen shirtsey trying to double up on a turnstile pass. You will have earned the ticket, but not the scorn.

 

John Carroll currently lives in Kansas with his wife, Rachael, but was born and raised in Philadelphia. He received his MFA from American University, and his work has appeared in Versal, Philly Fiction 2 (Don Ron Books), The Battered Suitcase, The Foghorn, and Interrobang!? He has a story forthcoming in the June issue of Cleaver.  He blogs at Oh John Carroll, and maintains the Poetry, by Google Voice site.