I’d proudly wear an Oriole on my shoulder

By Troy Foster

I have nine shirts with me.

I began this baseball road trip with six, but along the way I picked up a “Revive 1985″ T-shirt from a bootlegger in Kansas City and a brown ”Cedar Lake Motel & Pub” shirt that clashes with my shorts. I also picked up the replica jersey I wore to our recent game in Baltimore.

It’s a Tigers jersey, and when I put it on I had no idea the Orioles were hosting Detroit that day at Camden Yards. I learned this in the car on my way to game No. 24 of our basecrawl. We were headed there with Daren’s mom, Karen, and her friend, Eva, who treated us to the best seats we’ve had so far.  

“I’m totally going to catch crap today,” I announced to our party. 

I had good reason to believe this. 

Our buddy Nolan, who accompanied us for the first seven games before getting homesick and going home, wore a Boston jersey to each game. He caught hell at all of them, regardless of whether the Red Sox were playing.

Nolan rejoined us for three games on the East Coast, and you can imagine the insults hurled his way as he tried to find his seat at Yankee Stadium. Daren, not coincidentally, walked into Yankee Stadium wearing his Mets jersey.

“There were a lot of #&%$-slingers after us,” Daren says. 

But Daren and I both agree that Yankees fans — who we intentionally provoked — were mild compared to the baseball hooligans we encountered in Chicago.

The White Sox were hosting the Cubs on June 27 in a cross-town rivalry that divided next-door neighbors, fathers from their sons and husbands from their mistresses. While a majority of fans were well-behaved, there was an extra level of vitriol present at this game.

I was amazed by some of the signs and T-shirts. This wasn’t “White Sox rule, Cubs drool,” it was “Hey Cubs, F%@& You.” And the feeling was mutual. There were T-shirts that said “FUK-U-THOME” (an insult directed at a Sox player as a play on “Fukudome,” the name of the Cubs’ right fielder). And I took a picture of a Cubs fan holding a sign with a drawing of a guy pissing on the White Sox logo. 

We saw this kind of stuff everywhere. It was like there was something in the water making everyone mean, including the undercover Chicago Police who busted Daren in a scalping sting (if you haven’t heard that story yet, you can read about it here and here).

I didn’t have a dog in this fight between the Cubbies and White Sox, or so I thought. In my mind I was a neutral observer. But the moment I arrived in the parking lot at U.S. Cellular Field, I began catching hell.

“F#%& the Tigers!”

“Wrong game, a-hole!”

“Detroit sucks!”

I couldn’t understand why these people were yelling at me. Then Daren, BaseCrawl’s resident MLB expert, informed me that the White Sox and Tigers both play in the American League Central Division. 

I don’t even like the Detroit Tigers. No, let me clarify that. I don’t even know the Detroit Tigers. I don’t know if they’re any good, I don’t know what place they’re in and I don’t know anyone who plays on their team, except for Gary Sheffield (whose rookie card I collected 20 years ago).

And guess what? I bought the Detroit jersey for the worst reason possible: I just liked the way it looked. I have no association with the Tigers.

Yet several times during this game I sensed that many White Sox fans despised me more than the guys in blue and red.

At one point in the parking lot, as Daren and I were walking against the crowd, heading back to our vehicle to drop off our main camera, I was on the wrong end of a string of obscenities. Suddenly I began trying to explain myself, telling passersby that I wasn’t really a Detroit fan.

“Dude, just stand your ground and defend yourself,” Daren said. “Act like you’re a Tigers fan and throw it back in their face.”  

Throw it? We saw plenty of that, too, but in a different way. Late in the game we saw quite the battle in the upper deck of U.S. Cellular as some Cubs and Sox fans began hurling beer bottles at each other (which we caught on film). Several ejections ensued.

After the game, the battles continued in the parking lot. Everyone wanted blood. A lot of foot traffic was passing by our vehicle, and a Cubs fan walked by me and said “I hope you kick their #&$&.”

I thought about telling him that I’m not actually a Detroit player, let alone a fan, but I just smiled and nodded. 

Then — and I am NOT making this up — a woman wearing a White Sox shirt walked by me and said “Boston sucks!”

“This isn’t a ‘B,’ it’s a ‘D,’” I responded, pointing to my jersey, then pushing my arms out in a hopeless gesture.

Not three minutes later — I swear I am still NOT making this up — another inebriated woman looked at me and shouted: “Dodgers suck!”

“I KNOW!” I said.

My day at U.S. Cellular Field in a Detroit jersey was fresh in my mind as we entered the gates of Camden Yards. “Throw it back in their face,” Daren had said. I tried to prepare myself with a few comebacks for Baltimore fans.

“Oh yeah, well at least I don’t root for a bird.”

“Hey I just got a call on my cell phone. It was the Devil Rays and they asked for last place back.”

“Nice baseball card, f#%& face!“

Surprisingly, though, not an ill word was said to me as I walked in. I didn’t even sense any dirty glances.

Daren and I went through a stretch where we were running thin on angles for our video pods, so we were really stretching once again at this game. I decided to have an artist paint me to add something — anything! — to this pod.

I had to sit still in a chair as the artist studied my features. Meanwhile, three tough-looking Baltimore fans walked up and started watching my caricature take shape. I expected one of them to tell me I was ugly, but they smiled and one of them told me it looked great. (So great, in fact, that when I eventually saw the finished product I thought it looked better than me).

These three guys turned out to be from South Africa. One of them was a U.S. resident and rugby-turned-Orioles fan. The other two were visiting cousins, and their host had taken them out to the ball game. As we’ve continued to observe on this basecrawl, going out to the ball game isn’t so much about the ball game as it is having a good time with friends and loved ones. It’s a social event where having a hot dog, drinking a beer and catching up on old times can sometimes be more entertaining than the action on the field. 

The Tigers went on to win this game, but nobody ever said a derogatory word toward me. I cheered every time Detroit scored a run, and I even clapped when Jay Payton robbed Sheffield of a home run with one of those spectacular, leaping catches above the outfield wall. I’m not sure I have ever seen a play like that in person.

Although I was surprised not to catch any grief, Daren pointed out that Baltimore and Detroit are not natural rivals. They’re in different divisions of the American League. 

But I left the game wanting to believe that there’s something different about Orioles fans, that there’s an inherent goodness in their character. I wanted to believe that they were glad to see me at their game, wearing my Tigers jersey. I wanted to believe that they possess the true spirit of sportsmanship.

Or maybe it’s just that most White Sox fans are morons.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)