By Toby Smith
Journal Staff Writer
'What will you do when you bump into someone you know?' my wife asked. 'Such as your minister?'
I'm vending beer this summer at the Albuquerque Isotopes' stadium. I'm not doing it for the dough; I'm doing it for the double plays. You see, I love baseball like a brother.
Not long after the Isotopes' jazzy new venue opened, I mused, Wouldn't it be a kick to work here part time? It took me two years to root up the courage, and this spring I attended an Isotopes' job fair. Figured I might inquire about ushering.
Quickly, inexplicably, a concessions recruiter who only introduced himself as Steve said, 'You'd make a good hawker.'
Huh?
'Beer hawker,' Steve went on. 'You know, selling beer in the stands.'
Concessions people, I've come to learn, are like sideshow barkers: They'll say anything to get you in the tent.
'Hey,' promised Steve, 'you'll see a ton of baseball.'
Before I could say no, I took an exam for an alcohol server's license. Sample question: What is the pyloric valve? (Always a good thing to know, of course, should I be called on to perform an autopsy in the grandstand.)
On opening night in April, Steve reminded us hawkers, 'Card everyone, even the geezer with the cane.' I laughed, then saw I was the oldest hawker by at least 25 years. Geezer, for sure.
My debut was rocky. It took a while for me to realize who customers meant when they shouted in my direction, 'Yo, Beer Dude!' The box of 'product' that hung from my shoulders weighed close to 40 pounds when fully packed with beer, ice, water and snacks. Trudging up and down ballpark steps made me wish I went to the gym more than once a month.
'Hey, man, let 'em know who you are,' Steve instructed as I reloaded my box in the commissary. To show how, he let loose: 'Bee-yah! Hee-yah!'
The following morning was even rockier. My hips and thighs felt as if they'd been beaten with a Louisville Slugger. Limping, I told my wife I might go on the DL.
Then I remembered: I liked baseball too much to quit. And what's not to like when Orbit launches a giveaway T-shirt into a crowd so frenzied, fans appear to have been raised by jackals?
But the real joy for me this summer is the strange pleasures I've found in forecasting human behavior. For instance, these things I now know:
Any man who asks what a bottle of beer costs before reaching in his wallet, is almost never going to buy.
Any woman over the age of 35 who gets carded, will usually tip. (Flattery will get you everywhere.)
Any teenager who hands over a wrinkled Subway Sandwich Club membership card definitely is not old enough to drink.
Any child who catches on the fly a tossed bag of peanuts, will likely tip. Or rather, his father will.
At least once each night a young person will moan 'Rip-off!' as he paws through his bag of Cracker Jack to find he didn't get a prize inside. Instead, he got a biography of a long-ago baseball star, such as Walter 'Big Train' Johnson. I always want to say, 'Won't kill you to read it, kid.'
Most fans are polite, but they do ask head-scratchers: 'Can I buy half a beer?' Or, 'Do you sell cupcakes?' And my favorite: 'What time does the game end?'
Steve Bellacose, whose last name I finally learned, got me into the tent, as he said, but I see very little baseball. Most of the time my rear end faces the field. I'm not complaining, though. Working at the ballpark is a lot more entertaining than working out occasionally on a Stair Climber. For instance, when cheers sound garbled, I know it must be 50-Cent Hot Dog Night.
Even better, I've had the chance to gaze at my inner self this summer. When an acquaintance spots me, which happens at least once a game, the typical reaction is a startled expression that suggests, Poor guy. Must have been those high-tech stocks.
Such double-takes don't bother me. Fact is, it feels good to be past that point in life where embarrassment matters. I've yet to see my minister in the stands, but I've run into several church members. When that happens I summon a voice that Steve would truly appreciate: 'Bee-yah! Heeyah! Eyezzzz coooold!'
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