Picture this: It is 10:52 p.m. in an empty stadium and, while sitting by your lonesome as the torrid rains come crashing down, you wonder out loud how on earth you're going to get home from the "safest" district in America. As you publicly ponder, a member of the Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy (RFK) Stadium field crew comes sauntering out of the bullpen with a squeegee in one hand and a towel in the other. The 300 or so fans that were lingering around the stadium stop and erupt into a humorous smattering of cynical cheers. The belly of the fourth-oldest ballpark in the major leagues rumbles with the echoes of 45 forsaken years as shirtless men engage in perpetual Gregorian chants. While the rain begins to halt, the PA voice overtakes your attention.
"Tonight's game is scheduled to begin at 11:30 p.m. Thank you for your patience." For some unknown reason, maybe because of the quick rush of adrenaline to your head or quite possibly out of gratitude that your four-hour wait is finally coming to an end, you leap to your feet, raise your arms up high, and scream at the top of your lungs, "Praise be to Ruth!"
In one of the most supernatural, unbelievable or as Washington Nationals' Head Coach Frank Robinson puts it, "eerie" games to have ever been played, the once wild-card contending Philadelphia Phillies were beaten by the lowly Nationals, 3-1, in front of an estimated crowd of 324 on Sept. 27. Although the match-up was simply a division rivalry game, and even though the score/margin appeared to be as ordinary as any, the nine innings played throughout the course of a late Thursday night and an early Friday morning were anything but mundane.
As I exited the train station earlier that evening, I caught my first glimpse of the behemoth. Looking like a deformed latrine for a Greek god, the stadium was dimly lit against an overcast sky. The view was inarguably depressing. As I walked up to the ticket booth, the lady from whom I was supposed to buy my ticket commenced picking her nose. I quickly switched lines. After buying my three dollar ticket (that's right, only three George Washingtons will gain you admittance into D.C.'s finest sports venue), I was greeted by the displeased snorts of the bullish ticket-ripper.
Every spot in every section looked to be available, so I plopped my behind into the most uncomfortable seat I could find. Staring at the drip-drops hitting the tarp and the wetness now blanketing the field, I was immediately convinced that my efforts to see a ball game were doomed. Not until after my accompanying friend informed me, I was embarrassingly unaware that this one game had to be played: the Phillies were in the midst of a heated wild-card chase with only four days remaining. I took a glance at the sparse showing of fans that surrounded me and realized that the majority of them were rowdy, rancorous Philly "phanatics." Soon the sound of "E-A-G-L-E-S" yells (for Philadelphia's proud football team) and "MVP" screams (for the "hometown" hero, first baseman Ryan Howard) reverberated against my eardrums. Simultaneously, my eyes were blinded by the shirtless contingent of characters rambling about the stands coaxing passive persons (or sometimes waking sleeping ones) in order to start a weak version of the wave.
Hours passed, numerous hotdogs were consumed, and plenty of hot chocolate was drank before the rain lightened to a drizzle. While I traveled through the curves and contours of RFK, I noticed how soaked the warning track, bullpens and spots in the outfield had become. If I hadn't known any better, I would have guessed D.C. had just suffered through the tail-end of a Chinese monsoon. As I concluded my adventure through the stadium armory, I received a sports epiphany: These fans, these rain-soaked, disgruntled fans with grumbling stomachs, monstrous hangovers and boring full-time jobs were the purest of pure fans.
After waiting four hours before I even saw Phillies shortstop Jimmy Rollins stretch his groin muscle and Nationals second basemen Jose Vidro throw some long tosses, I couldn't believe what I was beginning to hear. Phillies fans (and what Nationals supporters remained), were shouting encouragements to coaches, rooting for their city's players, vehemently ragging the opposing team, and displaying an enthusiasm I haven't seen in crowds of over 100,000. Everyone stayed standing, living or dying on each pitch.
I arrived home at 4 a.m. to my roommate's surprise. As I ambled towards my bed, he asked me about the game. I briefly told him about the late start, the crazy fans, and the oddly lovable ugly-duckling of a stadium. At that point, I asked myself that question again: Why I was stupid enough to stick around in that stadium, in that part of the city, for that seemingly unimportant game for that long? I paused, reminisced, looked at my camera, and thought out loud:
"How am I still breathing?"
