at the ballpark - ballpark being an apt term. Wembley Stadium is indeed a stadium, whereas this is a park, with a short, chain link fence ringing the field, except for the outfield, which was circumscribed by a ten-foot wall of plywood bearing various advertisements for assorted goods and services, ranging from telephones to tobacco, automobiles to automatic garage door openers. Where Wembley has actual seats, this park merely offered long steel benches. However, Warner Park more than compensated for its lack of majesty with the way it allows one to commune with nature; the grass was neatly groomed and quite lovely, and from the elevated vantage point of the bleachers, there was a nice view of a modest forest, beyond which twinkled Lake Mendota, the last rays of sun sparkling off the lake's surface.
Shortly after we had selected our seats, a chipper voice boomed from the public address system, ordering us to stand for the national anthem. Little surprise that sports and patriotism should go hand in hand; few sports are not analogs of war, and a powerful nation must always have a populace ready, willing and able to go to war, regardless of the relative stupidity of said war.
Following everyone's example, I stood as the announcer screeched the song, joined by the several hundred fans, each in their own key. A loud cheer followed the song's completion, surpassed only by the great expression of joy in our section when a barrel-chested young man appeared, hefting a large plastic cooler.
"Beer man!" Kern shouted. The vender nodded in acknowledgment of Kern's hail and quickly climbed to where we sat.
"I'll have one," Nicole said.
"Me too," said Henry.
Kern tapped me on the shoulder, pointing at the beer vender. I shook my head. "Our designated driver," he said, smiling and patting me gently on the back. Nicole handed me a dollar, which I passed to Kern who passed it to Henry along with a dollar of his own. The beer man removed three cans of beer from the cooler, opened them and poured the contents into plastic cups. Quickly, my fellow drivers had their ballpark-beers, presumably satisfying yet another ballpark ritual.
"Hey, there'sLeon ," Henry said, pointing a few rows down toward a swarthy fellow with long, unkempt black hair, a thick mustache and a rather sharply hooked nose. He wore a Muskies cap, which bore the image of a muskellunge wearing a baseball cap and holding a baseball bat with one of its fins.
"Who, may I ask, isLeon ?" I inquired.
"He's sort of an unofficial cheerleader for the Muskies," Nicole replied. "He's pretty well known. He works for the state as a computer programmer, but about ten years ago, he was vice president of theUniversityofWisconsin Student Association ."
"He looks a bit old to have been a student, even ten years ago," I commented. Indeed, the fellow looked over forty years of age.
"I think he used to take just one class," Nicole answered, "or maybe he was a grad student. I'm not sure. Anyway, he and this guy, Jim Mallon, they were tired of the same-old-same-old stupid shit with student government, so they formed their own party - the Pale and Shovel Party - and got voted into office. They ran the student association for two years."
I momentarily played the devil's advocate. "Is there not an old adage that people get the kind of government they deserve?"
Nicole did not respond, merely continuing her historical digest. "Leonused to wear a clown suit to senate meetings." She laughed loudly. "They did some pretty wacko stuff. Like covering Bascom Hill with pink flamingos. They commissioned someone to build a paper mache bust of Lady Liberty right on the ice onLakeMendota ."
Action on the field drew my attention to where another ritual seemed to be taking place - the ceremonial throwing out of the first pitch. This night's honoree was a corpulent commercial developer, more than likely responsible for helping createMadison 's burgeoning state of urban sprawl.
After the fellow shook hands with anyone within arm's reach, the umpire handed him the ball. His throw bounced ten feet in front of the plate and barely managed to roll to the catcher. The fans applauded wildly.
The Muskie players took their positions throughout the field, and the crowd hushed. The umpire pointed at the opposing batter, then yelled from deep within his gut, "Play ball!"
Leonrose from his seat, a grin suddenly appearing, giving him an almost cartoon-like animation. "Let's Go Fish! Let's Go Fish!" he shouted, clapping his hands together, not