Beer And Baseball Stadiums

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Nearer to home in Philadelphia, I cajole my oldest daughter, Gogo, into joining an expedition to Citizens Bank Park. She agrees to go if I promise to buy her a soft pretzel.

The pretzel is soft and salty and soggy, like it's been soaked in a bathtub overnight. At McNally's tavern at the end of Ashburn Alley in the outfield concourse I get a Rolling Rock, which is a formidable color Gogo calls "hot yellow." I wonder for a moment what they do with the bathwater after they've soaked the pretzels. We return to our seats, where I follow up with a Coors Light, a name I've always considered a redundancy.

Next stop: Oriole Park, where the beer has more bad hops than the Orioles infield. The last time I went to a game in Baltimore was back in 1991, and the woman in the next seat was slugging back a Busch. "It's a lot like our president," she told me. "No charisma." I ordered a Natural, but liked it no better than the movie.

Nowadays, the O's carry neither. I chose another brand, which will remain nameless. No, I'll call it Basebrau because it tastes like it was strained though a second baseman's sock. This beer is dead. According to the fan in the Ripken jersey on my left, local custom demands that you transfer the beer from a ballpark wax cup to a Big Gulp plastic cup from 7-Eleven. I try this with the Basebrau, but I can still taste the sock.

I ask Ripken, What's wrong with ballpark beer?

"Aaah, it's watered down," he says with apparent authority.

Well, that sounds vaguely like a conspiracy, so the next day I call the government. I phone the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, and ask if ballpark beer really is watered down. No, says a G-Man: It's not watered down. It's not the wax cups. Or keg tampering. Or even inferior brew. "It's the loss of carbonation," he states firmly. "Carbonation gives beer its bite. The longer it sits around, the more bubbles die." And when the fizz goes, so does the sparkle.

My odyssey ends in Boston, where I confront the unbearable lightness of beering. Bud Light. Miller Lite. Coors Light. "Get your diet beer here," chirps a Fenway Park vendor.

They stop vending beer after the seventh. By the bottom of the inning, a loop of fans threads from a beer stand to the men's room and back again.

A fellow named Leo observes this configuration from the railing. He's clutching a couple of full cups he never even bothers to sip.

Leo explains why fans buy ballpark beer. "They just like the feel of the cup in their hand," he says. "The taste is no good, but the feel is still alright."

 

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