Be Careful What You Wish For

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR

ED WOOTEN

As a ticket to the macho world of being a man, boys are expected to participate in sports or at least, be knowledgeable about sports.

Men may forget scheduled appointments, key dates, or even their wedding anniversary (well, maybe only once), but they can quickly recall sporting events’ accomplishments.

Who first broke Babe Ruth’s single season record for home runs? Who has recorded the most no-hitters in baseball? Who holds the rushing record in Super Bowls? Which team has won the most Super Bowls? Who won last year’s Stanley Cup? You get the message. 

Almost any bar in America has an old man, sitting in a corner, spending part of his Social Security check for an alcoholic beverage, and recalling his glory days, “...when I was a halfback in high school.” No matter their age, these old codgers ignore their occupations’ accomplishment and relive the limelight of their sporting prowess.   

As I look back on times past, I recall a pivotal moment in my life...and it happened at a sporting event.

Baseball...America’s pastime. Many wondrous books and stories have been written about the aura of baseball. Who hasn’t heard of Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, or A League of Their Own?

In T-ball and Little League, I played second base and did fairly well. Defensively, I could field the ball, make good throws to first base, and catch the catcher’s throw to gun down runners trying to steal. Offensively, I was about average…then came Pony League and high school. Pitchers threw harder and had an evil pitch called the curve. Damn! I could never get the barrel of the bat on a ball that was not traveling straight.

I wasn’t fast enough to run track, was height challenged so basketball was out, and didn’t enjoy being pummeled by football linemen who relished the opportunity to pound a light weight running back.

So…instead of pursuing an athletic career, I quit baseball my junior year and concentrated on studying. I deduced my ability to get into college was dependent on my academic intellect and not my athletic prowess.

Though not directly involved in actual sporting events, I retained my sporting knowledge. Roger Maris was the first hitter to surpass Babe Ruth’s single season home run record and Nolan Ryan holds the record for the most no-hitters. See, I can rattle off statistics.

While I gave up participating, I watched sports on TV and followed notable accomplishments on other media. To better keep in touch with sports and not be labeled a nerd, I went to games and worked part-time in the concession stand.

While not as exciting as playing, working the concession stand had its advantages. One such advantage was being able to spend time with Dianna Kaye.

Dianna Kaye had been my heart throb since fifth grade.

No, we weren’t sweethearts and we didn’t date in high school. I’d admired her from a distance and often wished for the courage to ask her out. This wish didn’t materialize—I never mustered the intestinal fortitude to ask her out. I think psychologists call it a fear of rejection.  

She ran with a more popular crowd than I did, so working with her at the concession was time for me to be around her.

After one baseball game, she and I were the last two leaving and were straightening the concession stand’s storage room. Our tasks were to segregate the packaged snacks, consolidate the partially filled bags of peanuts, and to stack the paper cups neatly on the shelves. After determining that we understood our mission, the adult-in-charge told us to be sure to lock the door when we finished and then she departed.

The air in the storage room was stagnant and stale, but the faint fragrance of Dianna’s perfume tickled my nostrils. Being alone with Dianna was great, then it got better. For some unknown reason, we got face-to-face, and I gazed into her blue-green, hazel eyes. My heart raced and I summoned enough nerve to kiss her.

To my surprise, she leaned forward and kissed me again. I mean, ummm, a real kiss, passionate and a bit of tongue. Wow! My longtime wish appeared to be coming true as I recalled the numerous times I’d read Playboy and fantasized about a moment like this.

We pushed the storage door shut and continued kissing. She sat back on fifty-pound bags of peanuts which were more comfortable than the backseat of my Camaro.

After several more kisses, I got brave and ran my hand up her blouse.

My heart was pounding and sweat was rolling down the back of my neck. Dianna’s breathing was heavy and labored and her arms encircled me and held me tightly.

A split second before I got confident enough to slip my hand under her bra, I felt something brush my arm.

My immediate thought was that the adult-in-charge had returned. Ugh!

Oh…,but if that had only been the case.

I looked at my arm and my eyes peered into the pinkish red eyes of a field rat. It was big enough to move boxes of potato chips by itself.

I screamed, shook the rat from its perch on my arm, and began flailing like a wild man.

Dianna jumped up and struggled to remain out of reach of my flaying arms.

The rat scurried and quickly disappeared. Momentarily, some semblance of order returned to the storage room.

You may be asking, “Did she and I return to our almost-love making?”

Well, no. We didn’t consummate this brief, romantic encounter.

“Why?” you may ask.

I could be very noble and say, “Because I respected her,” but that wouldn’t be the reason.

Why then?

Well, first and foremost…during my battle with the rat, I soiled my trousers.

And…secondly, Dianna declined future offers of a date with me.

When I’m old and drawing my Social Security checks, I plan to tell the barroom patrons my version of the time I almost made love to the most beautiful girl in the world. It’s not my finest athletic achievement, but it happened at a sporting event.

But…I’m also gonna caution the younger listeners, “Be careful what you wish for.”