“Oh, no … not again.”
All Freddie Cullen wanted to do was have a nice, relaxing day at the ballpark.
He’d drink a beer – maybe two – wolf down a pretzel, and enjoy some High-A baseball courtesy of the Asheville Tourists. But it was also a bit of “quiet time.”
Sure, there’d be the crack of the bat and the chirp of the umpire, and he’d hear all of it since only a smattering of fans would show up for an 11 a.m. Wednesday start. But that was the beauty of it … he could enjoy it all without having to make conversation.
However, as he glanced over at Row 3, Section GG of McCormick Field – where his seat was – he saw “Talking Guy.”
Just a couple of weeks earlier he and his wife, Maisie, had gone to a South Atlantic League game between the Tourists and Greenville Drive. Season ticket holders, they were quite comfortable in their perch to the right of home plate and were used to different people occupying the spots around them.
During this particular game Maisie had a non-chatty young woman to her right, while Freddie was stuck with a “talker” to his left – one of those people who couldn’t resist commenting on every ball and strike.
And it was as though he had a form of baseball Tourette syndrome because he’d be yammering away at Freddie about an unrelated subject and suddenly shriek.
It was weird and unsettling, especially for someone who wasn’t entirely comfortable cozying up to strangers.
“Yeah, I was here back when they were the Double-A Asheville Orioles along, oh, about 1973,” said Talking Guy, embarking on a stream of consciousness dialogue. “I pretty much came to all their weekend games because I was a big fan of Rob Andrews, who batted over .300 that year STRIKE ONE! and – of course you know Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager – then they moved and came back in ’76 in the Sally League as the Tourists THAT WAS OUTSIDE BUT WE’LL TAKE IT! and they’ve been affiliated with the Rockies for more than 20 years SHOULDA BEEN STRIKE TWO, BLUE! But they were hooked up with the Rangers for a while, too, so over time you learn to follow the players to the bigs and kinda STRUCK HIM OUT … SAT HIM DOWN!”
Freddie thought of himself as a relatively friendly person but this man in particular just really, really got on his nerves.
By the third inning Freddie hoped either he or the talker would have a fatal heart attack. Didn’t matter which one … it’d be a relief either way.
And today – during what used to be called “Businessman’s Special Day” – he wouldn’t have his wife to bail him out of any unwanted chats.
Of course, he could sit almost anywhere due to the sparse crowd, so maybe he’d just ease his way over to Section MM and watch the game from the third base side.
Yep … that would solve his problem.
Rather than going to his regular seat, he instead went the other direction and plopped down on the general admission aluminum bleachers.
“Hey, Mr. Cullen,” said Randy, a longtime usher at the park who knew Freddie was a regular at the ballpark. “You’re not in your usual spot today.”
Freddie shrugged sheepishly.
“I hope it’s OK,” he said. “I figured it wouldn’t matter on a day like today.”
Randy nodded.
“Oh, no … it’s fine. I doubt there’ll be 300 people here. Besides, you moved from a $25 seat to an $11 seat. It’s not like you traded up”
Freddie chuckled.
“Just between you and me, I didn’t want to sit by that guy over in GG,” he said. “I’m sure he’s a nice old fellow and all, but good grief … he never shuts up. He nearly talked my ear off last time and I’m not really in the mood today.”
Rex walked over to Freddie and sat down.
“Oh, that’s Mr. Friedman,” Randy said. “Years ago, he used to come to all the games with his wife and daughter. He was always cutting up with everybody, and anytime he saw a group of kids he’d buy ‘em all snow cones or ice cream helmets. He does like to talk, there’s no doubt about that.”
Freddie stood up and looked over at Talking Guy, who had Section GG all to himself.
“You said he used to come with his wife and daughter,” Freddie said. “Does he not bring them anymore?”
Randy shook his head.
“He lost both of ‘em a while back,” Randy said. “I don’t remember what happened exactly, but they both died the same year. Seems like it was around 2017, 2018 … sometime along in there. I think he’s just lonely, that’s probably why he talks so much.
“Anyway, I better get up here and get back to my post. Shiner’s pitching for us today and it might be the last time we see him. I imagine he’ll get called up to Corpus Christi before too long. Enjoy the game, Mr. Cullen.”
Freddie – feeling like a monumental jerk – sat in silence for a moment and once again glanced over at the man he now knew as Mr. Friedman.
He got up, trudged to the concession stand, bought two draft beers, and made the trek over to Row 3, Section GG.
“I don’t think I introduced myself last time we saw each other,” he said, handing Mr. Friedman a beer. “I’m Freddie Cullen. So, I remember you saying something about the time Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager here …”
