My policy on free ball-game tickets is, I accept them on condition they are accompanied by a VIP parking pass. Cash parking is for hikers.

In the case of last Tuesday, the hikers walked right by me as I sat in my car on Ballpark Way along with thousands of other VIPs trying to squeeze into our special parking lot. After that, I still had to cover ½ mile on foot. So it was 30 minutes after first pitch when I got my first glimpse of stadium green.

Of course, what's happening on the field is of secondary, even tertiary, interest when you have a ticket to one of the suites. We've rebuilt all of DFW's stadiums over the past 15 years to accommodate people with little interest in sports. Even our minor-league park boasts a ring of luxury boxes, where you can eat, drink, and party with your friends in air-conditioned comfort … just like home.

Only at home, it's easier to park.

besides the game itself, what i really miss about watching sports live is the sidestream smoke. Just an occasional whiff of someone else's cigarette, a couple of rows away, along with the roasted peanuts—then I feel I'm at a ball game. That was true in my Little League days, and even at the Astrodome before the Nicotine Nazis laid claim to all public space.

In any event, I had to leave the Rangers game to be up and functioning early, so I thanked my hosts and headed for the stairs. On the way out, I passed the smoking area, where people stood against a wall like Skid Row. Not even folding chairs for the outcast smokers.

Meanwhile, out on the sidewalk, some promo girls were passing out samples of Axe body spray.

Ponder that for a moment: You can't smoke inside because people complain about the smell. But there's no rule against vulgar fragrances.

axe is one of those products that's so widely ridiculed I almost can't believe it has actual consumers, like Spam. I thanked one of the girls for the little capsule she handed me, then thanked God it came sealed in plastic. At least I wouldn't have to choose between littering, or forgetting I'd left it in the car only to have August heat cook it off like ammunition in a burning military vehicle. Goodbye, resale value.

Curiosity overtook me the next afternoon, at home. I unwrapped the pustule and sniffed it: Chinese plastic. Then I pressed on the squirt-top, and Axe vapor boomed across the kitchen, narrowly missing several bystanders.

I had no idea Axe was a personal-defense spray. Drives away people with taste.

Axe. Tag. Gag. Perhaps I was better off in my car for that two-mile, 45-minute crawl to the stadium. I might have otherwise been marching in a crowd of steamy, body-spray-shrouded guys and the girls who love them.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 02:41 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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