Wednesday, June 12th

Batter Up!

I will confess: I am a fan of that owner-cursed club, the Baltimore Orioles.

When I moved to Maryland in the late eighties, the Orioles were in the middle of a terrible, terrible slump. It seemed like they would never move out of the cellar, and besides, I'm from Texas: what do I care about baseball, anyway? I went to a couple of games at old Memorial Stadium and scoffed.

Then something happened to me. I grew up a little and became more able to appreciate the game. I discovered that the baseball season starts after (and for the Orioles, almost always ends before) football season. My brother started to play baseball so I learned a little at his games, too. And, most importantly, the Orioles moved into the jewel of downtown Baltimore, a perfect park bounded by an old brick warehouse and the Bromo-Seltzer tower. I fell in love with the Yard as soon as I stepped into it.

You may wonder, what does this have to do with food? My answer, pure and simple, is: a lot. Food is a huge part of the baseball experience. Go to any game and look around. Fans are not sitting in their seats paying concentrated homage to the game. They are gesturing to the hot-dog vendor, the beer man, Frozen Lemonade Guy and the girl hawking soft pretzels. At any given time, thousands of customers are lining up at the concession stands on the concourse to buy Italian sausage sandwiches and crabcakes. Corporate bigwigs in sky boxes are piling their plates with shrimp and prime rib from the buffet stations.

Everyone has their own baseball food rituals; I really don't think any two are the same. In Baltimore, some people cannot attend a game without stopping by Boog's barbecue for a brisket sandwich and some super-sweet coleslaw. Some will only eat the Hebrew National kosher dogs; other fans prefer Esskay, our local Bawlmer brand. There are kids who are trying to collect a tiny helmet from every team in the league by eating a hot-fudge sundae at each and every game.

Some people like to bring their own (for instance, my dad has the dreaded "hot dog purse": an insulated lunch bag on a strap which usually contains dogs, buns, and ziploc bags of varied condiments. Neither my brother, my sister nor I would be caught dead carrying that thing around, but when hunger strikes, we've been known to resort to desperate measures). The occasional fan likes to drink his lunch, consuming approximately three thousand calories in light beer and then trying to hop onto the dugout roof. You can construct a meal entirely out of sugar, if you like (Twizzlers, sno-cones, cotton candy, Coca-Cola, Italian ice), or of salt (hot dog, French fries, pretzels, nachos with "cheese" sauce, popcorn).

In any event, I've never tried to go to a ballgame without eating. Nor would I want to try. Part of the fun is to sit in the bright sunshine on a Sunday afternoon, getting sunburned and eating something you would never eat at home. To that end, the recipe for my grandfather's favorite Coney Islands is to the right of this column. I have no doubt that he is somewhere rooting for the DiMaggio- and Mantle-era Yankees, and eating something just this delicious.