Something about Mary…

“I charge for that, y’know.”

Maybe Mary was joking, or maybe she just didn’t want her picture taken. Or maybe she was serious. Either way, Mary said it would cost us. As well it should. Mary’s a big deal around here.

So we never took her picture.

She plopped down next to us, 2 rows behind the Mariner dugout, in Peoria’s 80-degree heat. Dave and I had beers and brats in hand. I was snapping pics and texting my family when she came down the steps to her seat.

I focused on the brat. That was before we met Mary.

“I’m Bill, this is Dave.” 

She reached to shake hands. “My name’s Mary. I’m 90 years old, and I’ve had season tickets to Spring Training since they opened this park 30 years ago.”

Mary had our attention.

About that time Mary’s friend showed up. We introduced ourselves again.

“Just call me Big Mama,” said the friend. “My husband’s only 5’3”. It’s an old joke.”

Turns out, Big Mama’s husband is called Little Pop. 

Big Mama was just a kid. She was maybe 70. She pulled out her scorecard and ranted about missing the first inning of yesterday’s game and how that screwed up her book. Mary chuckled and patted Big Mama’s knee. “It’s OK, dear.”

By the time we stood for the anthem, we were deep into Mary’s history at Lake Chelan, before all the rich people came in and messed it up. Her four daughters grew up there. Mary has outlived two of them, and she struggled to tell us that part. “They were smokers. I warned them, they wouldn’t listen…”

Big Mama squinted at the scoreboard and scribbled on her lineup card. 

Mary never left her seat for the whole 9 innings, not when I went for another beer, not when Dave went for a smoke, not when the stadium crew came to check on her and see if she wanted to leave early. Not even when Big Mama asked if she was OK. No, Mary would stay to the end. 

Shirt courtesy of grandsons. Man-boobs courtesy of healthy livin’.

Dave and I believe she stayed because these two charming 50- or 60-something-year-old boys were there to keep her company. More likely, baseball is in Mary’s blood and she wanted to milk every drop from a meaningless spring game in beatdown Arizona sun with endless bullpen calls and pinch hitters and ballplayers you’ve never heard of, getting their first, maybe their only, chance on a big-league field… 

It was meaningless to everyone but those ballplayers. And to Mary. That’s baseball. To Mary, that game meant everything. It meant everything to sit there and take it all in, to savor every bit of it, the rhythm, the dreams, the conversation, the crack of the bat, the pop of the mitt. The calls of vendors hawking beer, peanuts, chuuuuurrrrrrrros. And a broken-hearted pitcher on his long walk, head down, after a rotten inning.

It meant everything for Mary to tell us Ichiro is a jackass.

Say what?

Mary was an usher at the Kingdome for the Mariners’ Opening Day in 1977. She worked games there and at Safeco Field for 39 years.

“My favorite days were in the section for the players’ wives. I loved that. They were all so nice. Ken Griffey’s family, his wife, his kids, his mom, just wonderful people. And Dave Niehaus… oh, do I miss that man.”

That’s when I might have broken the magic. I told Mary exactly where I was on the day Niehaus died. These are things you remember. I told her about calling my daughter that day, because I had to talk to someone. I told the whole story, even about my daughter giving me the Niehaus biography years later, and about how I cried again that day. I apologized to Mary for getting dewey-eyed, and my buddy Dave handed me a napkin for the tears. That’s what buddies do, right?

But back to Ichiro. 

“He doesn’t try hard. He’s out for himself. He’s not a team player.” Mary was pretty lit up. Maybe it was seeing Ichiro himself, almost touching distance in front of us, on the dugout rail. Age 48, three years out from his final pro game, and there he was in spikes and batting gloves, ready to take the field.

Ichiro at 48: Put me in, coach!

She turned to demand answers. “What makes you think he’s so good?”

“Well, Mary, a couple years from now he’ll be in the Hall of -“

“What? No way!”

Dave made an attempt. “Y’know, Mary, maybe he only looked like he wasn’t trying, I mean, maybe he was so good, it looked -“

“Nope!”

So that was that. 39 years watching your team, hanging out with their families, coming to hundreds of spring games, and you’ve earned a solid right to an opinion. Even if Cooperstown thinks different.

You know what we didn’t talk about? We didn’t get into Mariner prospects, Mariner chances for the playoffs, or this year’s breakout Mariner stars. We didn’t talk coaching, hitting, pitching. 

Check that. We got pitch counts every inning from Big Mama. Total pitches, strikes, balls, first-pitch strikes. That is, until she ran out of room and quit tallying as our M’s sent in the ninth pitcher of the day. 

We did talk family. We talked of our parents and our kids and our enduring love for them and for this game that binds us. I told Mary about taking my father to the last live MLB game he’d ever see, a Mariner playoff victory in 1995. 

“How old was he?” Mary wanted to know.

I looked at her. Maybe we were keeping score here.

“He was, hmmm,  77. He’s been gone for a while, Mary.”

Mary sighed. “Well, bless him. And bless you for taking him.”

Dave went for another smoke break. Mary glanced as he left and sighed again.

“It’s an addiction. It killed… two of my girls.” Big Mama reached for Mary’s hand.

Then the ninth was over, and these two young fellas told the girls what an honor it was to sit and chat with them. 

Mary grinned at us. She thought we were kidding. “You’re full of crap.”

No, seriously, Mary, if this isn’t what baseball’s all about – family, love, memories, a sappy tear or two – then why the hell do we even show up?

I wore my Abbott and Costello shirt that Saturday, and sent a pic to the grandkids who gave it to me. Sunday, Dave and I got a good-morning wave from Rizzer and a smile and a postgame handshake from Shannon. We admired Suarez’s hairdo, spotted Jarred Kelenic and George Kirby, cheered ex-Mariner Chris Taylor. We ate brats, saw family, drank too much, hollered for our boys, got plenty of sun. It was an epic baseball weekend.

And yeah, Dave and I might be full of crap. But there’s no doubt about the best moment.

We got fresh inspiration from two new friends and fellow Mariner fans. And it doesn’t get better than that. Thanks for a perfect game, Mary and Big Mama.

Rizzer preps for the game in Dave’s House.