Some Things Are
More Important Than Baseball

Down on the field, John Tudor, traded back to my beloved Cardinals, was adjusting nicely to two shoulder surgeries and the consequential loss of velocity, tying the Phillies in knots with his soft stuff. Little by little, the Cards padded their lead. But I hadn't looked as far as the diamond for three innings.

We'd just finished a two-month cruise "Round the Horn" from San Diego for an overhaul in Philadelphia, where we'd arrived just in time for the start of the baseball season. I couldn't believe my luck when I found out that the first team to visit Veterans Stadium would be my Redbirds and lost no time buying tickets for two of the three games. The ship's duty schedule was all that prevented me from attending all of them.

It was Friday night, I was in the Vet's "nosebleed section," I had a beer in my hand, my best friend for company, and the Cards were winning. What more could I want?

The answer to that question materialized in the fifth inning.

Ozzie Smith had just made a nifty play on a tough bouncer up the middle when SHE made her way to a section about 15 rows below where I was sitting. Shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair. Flawless, creamy skin, at least as far as I could tell. It was early April in Philly, and she was dressed in accordance with the weather; jeans and a wind breaker. So the only skin I could see was her face and hands. However, not only was her complexion perfect, but there was a freshness, a kind of glow about her features that made me wish I were a better man. It was a sort of physical manifestation of inner beauty that couldn't be contained entirely within.

From the waist up, she probably would have been a small to medium-sized BBW. But her waist-to-hip differential was at least 30 inches and probably more like 35 or 40. She had to stand, since the nearest armless seats were the bleachers, which were at the opposite end of the stadium, and there was no possibility of her squeezing into the available armed seating. As a result, she made several trips to the stadium concourse, then back to the section where her friends were sitting. Each time, I tracked her until she was out of sight, trying not to be too obvious about it. Charlie was not a BBW admirer, found it strange that anyone could be, and would have never let me hear the end of it if he'd known I was so attracted to this woman. At the time, his taunts would have bothered me.

Now, her appearance had grabbed my attention in a singularly authoritative and memorable manner. But there was still a baseball game down there, so I don't think she would have held my undivided attention for the remainder of the evening had I not heard her speak to her friends.

She didn't have a loud voice, but it was so clear that I could make out every word, in spite of the buzz of a near-capacity crowd and a separation of fifteen rows. I don't remember now exactly what she said, and it isn't important. Her voice was not too deep, not too shrill, with a musical quality and a sort of flirtatious lilt at the end of each sentence. It spoke of a sweet disposition, coupled with a mischievous sense of humor. It communicated confidence. It said she was happy with herself, whatever her size. It made my scalp prickle and my spine tingle.

Just after the seventh inning stretch, I made my move, such as it was. A vendor had just made his way to her row. I pretended to Charlie that I just had to have a stick of the cotton candy he was hawking -- RIGHT NOW! My excuse made, I made the trek down, desperately trying to come up with some pretext to talk to that thoroughly captivating woman.

My destination reached and my brainstorming unsuccessful, I fumbled out my wallet and paid for my purchase. SHE turned to me for a split-second and favored me with a smile that wrapped its warmth around me before she turned back to her companions, and I returned to my seat, stuffing a sticky wad of brightly colored sugar into my mouth as I went.

I detest cotton candy.

I like to think that today, I would have followed this incredible woman out to the concourse and found some excuse to get her attention, then pay her an extravagant, sincere, and well-deserved compliment. But this was 10 years ago, and I had nowhere near the self-confidence I have now. Today, I wouldn't have cared what my friends thought. But 10 years ago, I attached entirely too much importance to it.

I never got her name.

Even though this particular encounter came to a less-than-satisfactory conclusion, it was still a defining event in my life. It would still be several years before I was to fully awaken to my own admiration for the fuller figure. But you might say I got one of my first wake-up calls that night at Veterans Stadium.

Charlie and I were to take in many ball games that year, but I never saw HER again. However, every other time we went, I felt compelled to buy one of those gaudy, cloying clouds of pure sugar and consume it with feigned gusto.

Mike Kramer

Winner, Third Prize, Abby Writing Contest 2000

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