Recently, I attended a baseball game with my friend, my five year-old son, and my parents.  

For most of the game, we had no idea that the man sitting in front of us was a complete lunatic.  He seemed like a normal guy.  But in the ninth inning, he showed his true colors. 

He put a damper on what had been an otherwise enjoyable evening.  I’ll never know exactly what he was thinking, but I’ve tried to take a walk in his shoes by imagining his inner monologue throughout the game.  Here’s how I think it went:

What a perfect night for a ballgame.  70 degrees, late summer, nice breeze coming in off the lake.  The stands are half empty because the White Sox are out of the playoff race.  But hey, I have plenty of room to stretch out and enjoy the game.  

The only thing that could possibly go wrong would be if some five year-old put his feet up on the empty seat next to mine.  If that happened, I would absolutely lose it.

It looks like I’m all set.  Bag of peanuts.  Beer.  And I’m watching some incredible pitching tonight.  It’s a no-hitter going into the sixth.  

The guy behind me, though, what’s up with him?  He’s keeps droning on to his friend about the Democratic presidential candidates.  

What do I care, though?  It’s a free country.  He can talk about whatever he wants.  

But if his little brat decides to rest his feet on the empty seat next to mine, look out.  That’s another story.  I’m going to have to threaten his dad with a major league beating if that happens.  Freedom has its limits.

Wooohooo!  Home run!  Let’s go Sox!  Look at the fireworks go off!

Wait—hold on.  Is that kid kicking his feet against the back of the empty seat next to mine?  I think I feel the reverberations.  It feels like I’m being lightly tapped on the back.  That does not work for me.  Not at all.

I’m turning to look.  His feet ARE resting on the back of the seat next to mine!  I bet you a million bucks he was kicking it a second ago.  

I stare at the brat’s dad, who’s in the middle of explaining something to his friend about Bernie Sanders.  I catch his eye.  Now, he’s quiet.  

I hold eye contact with that pinhead for a moment.  He looks confused.  I slowly turn laser beam eyes downward at his child’s insolent little feet. 

I stare long and hard at the grey and neon green sneakers.  

How long is it going to take for this idiot dad to get the message?  He thinks he’s clever, talking about politics all night.  But can’t he take a hint?

I turn back around so I don’t miss the last two outs of this game that the Sox are about to lose. 

Ah, now he’s got the message!  He just said to his kid, “He wants your feet off the seat.”

“He” meaning me.  

I snap back around and snarl at the dad, “No—YOU want his feet off the seat.”

(Get it?  As in, YOU are going to be in a world of pain if your kid doesn’t get his feet off the seat.)

All he says is, “Correct.”  What a wuss.  How lame is that?  

No wisecrack, no comeback, no nothing from that ninny or his kid.  Complete silence back there for the next ten minutes.  

The game finally ends.  On the way up the aisle toward the exit, he still doesn’t look at me or say anything.

I was going to clean his clock, too.  Right there in front of his kid.  Putting his feet on the empty seat next to mine.  I could feel the reverberations.  It felt like I was being lightly tapped on the back.  The nerve.  

Good game, though!  Nice night out for a family to see a ballgame.  

Or a guy all by himself who has nothing better to do than enjoy a few refreshments, watch a game, and threaten some guy with a beating because his five year-old son put his feet up on a seat.

Good times!

 

This has been a journey into the mind of a lunatic who sat near me at a baseball game.  

If you’re in the Chicago area, I encourage you to head out to White Sox Park before the season ends, sit behind home plate on the third base side, and maybe you too can be threatened by this unhinged individual!  

Thanks for the wonderful memories, Mr. Psycho!