Eight People You Meet at the Ol' Ball Game

Peanuts, Cracker Jacks, and these exceptional human beings, included in the high price of admission to a stadium near you.

MY GOLDEN AGE as a baseball fan was the late 1980s, when I lived a mile from Wrigley Field, and the Cubs were fielding—surprise!—decent teams. I was an editor at Playboy magazine at the time, but one afternoon I ditched the grind of interviewing Playmates and editing John Updike to occupy row seven behind the Cubs’ dugout, as the North Siders faced Cincinnati.

The Reds had a fearsome bullpen at the time, and with the Cubs threatening to actually score, they brought fireballer Rob Dibble to pitch. My fellow fans were three-to-five beers into their enjoyment of the game at this point, so Wrigley was eerily silent (sleepy) as the flinger stared, and stared, and stared into his catcher’s crotch, seeking a sign.

Inspiration struck me.

I rose in my seat, cupped my hands around my mouth, and shouted “Throw the ball you idiot!” All 26,000 fans on hand loosed a drowsy cackle, and Dibble had to step off the rubber to compose himself.

It was my greatest (only) moment as a heckler.