In the desert's summer, heat doesn't abide by the rules of night. Veiled behind a promise of relief from intolerable temperatures, is yet another level of Dante's Hell. Beads of sweat laced with the scent of sunscreen remain instilled in the air, shirts are still cemented to perspiring bodies, and the insufferable sound of flip-flops flopping continue resonating in the dusty atmosphere. Even the purple mountains appear to sag during the brief darkness of summer months. Surviving night in "The Lovin' Spoonfull's" summer is an evolutionary trait acquired only by the cold-blooded residents of Phoenix, Arizona. Some flock to the sizzling swimming pools. Others prefer to protect their homes from the heat like the zombie apocalypse, god forbid you open their front door. I prefer a less drastic route, Diamondbacks baseball.
The crack of the bat is timeless - though maybe serendipitous with the Diamondbacks - and the smell of freshly cut grass is mesmerizing. Munching on peanuts and crackerjacks, enjoying the cool air the stadium has to offer, keeping score just like fans of fifty years ago did. "Root root root for the home team" and all that good stuff. That's fine for the old couple sitting a few rows behind us. But damn it, I'm a fan and I love it. Each Diamondback base hit is treated like VE Day, and each run we score is praised like the second coming of Jesus. Ok, maybe not quite that much celebration. We do have dignity unlike some Red Sox fans I know of.
Baseball is the perfect retreat from the smoldering night. Sitting alongside friends in the cheapest cheap seats possible. We watch the game, of course, but what comes more naturally is the conversations. Some pertain the baseball, but most sound like they belong in a sitcom. "If Pokemon were real, which would one taste the best?" A voice replies, "I'm willing to bet Picachu. I mean you would feel horrible eating it because of the cuteness factor..." Or how awesome it would be to lifeguard at the pool in the stadium. Strangers glance at us with curious looks, half eavesdropping half having their own conversations. Once our seats are taken, we loose ourselves in the past-time.
On summer nights the roof and panels stay closed, protecting us from the inferno outside. Once that 27th out approaches, we find ourselves praying for extra innings. We know the heat is lurking, preparing for us to return. The Diamondbacks aren't exactly doing us any favors. At a record setting speed, they help the stadiums air conditioning by whiffing at-bat after at-bat. The game ends on a low note, and we leave the comfy confines into the big summer shadow.
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