TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME...

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Sometimes in life, you are presented with challenges that seem insurmountable, challenges that call for you to dig deep in the recesses of your soul and find that little something extra to give you the strength, the courage, and the intestinal fortitude to publicly humiliate an 8-year old.

Such was the case when I was presented with that very challenge at a minor league baseball game. For those of you who have never been to a minor league game, I implore you: put down the paper, get in your car, and go to the stadium. Even if a game isn’t being played. Just go. Minor league baseball games are the finest American product since cable television.

It all started when my wife, two friends and I went to the ballpark to see the Augusta Green Jackets take on the Charleston Alley Cats. Around the seventh inning, we learned it was Charleston, WV, not Charleston, SC. Just thought you’d want to know.

Anyway, when you purchase a program for the game, there is an insert that lists all of the between-inning, on-the-field games that fans can be selected for. If you are selected, you will be called on the field and asked to compete against other fans in games such as the Bat Spin Race, the Yellow Pages Search, and the Dodge a Sniper from 150 Yards Game.

My friends, Morris and Steve, and I registered for several games. My wife refused to register because, in her words, "I would much rather see you make a schmuck out of yourself."

As we sat in the stands, enjoying some delicious ballpark dogs (circa 1943) and some ice cold adult beverages, Morris and I heard our names bellowed from the loudspeakers. (I assume other people heard it to. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a Field of Dreams moment.)

We went to the guest relations office and found out that we would be participating in the Wet and Wild contest, in which we would perform our wet T-shirt routine for the crowd. Kidding, of course. That would only be done if the intent were to frighten all of the children enough to leave the stadium and enroll in the nearest convent and/or monastery.

The game, as it turned out, involved one member of the team throwing water balloons in the air and the other member trying to break them with a big, orange, plastic Fred-Flinstone-club-looking bat. Whichever team won would receive a prize. The losing team would be shot. Or given a second-place prize. I can’t really remember.

Our opponents would be Bruce and Trey, a father and son team that screamed Americana. There was pop, teaching his young son how to keep score and defining the intricacies of the game, as they both wore matching caps to help the home team to victory. And there were Mike and Morris, slipping outside to finish their beers. Needless to say we were not going to be the crowd favorites.

Morris and I would be positioned on the 3rd base, or starboard, side of the field. Across the field were Bruce and Trey. Immediately, Morris and I became the evil wrestling tag team, the bullies picking on the little kid. I looked at Morris, and then back at the enemy. We looked at each other. Morris gave me a look that spoke volumes. Through a second of eye contact, we both knew what the other was thinking -- we wished we had brought our beers out there with us.

When it came time for the contest, though, we put on our game faces. The announcer told us to begin, and Morris began hurling the balloons in the air towards me. One by one, I picked them from the skies, sending water spraying all over, well, me. In the end, all 10 balloons were smashed. Bruce and Trey’s total -- a mere four. We were the undisputed Wet and Wild Champions.

As we began walking back to guest relations to claim our prize, the crowd began cheering us, mainly because they learned that the third-base side won prizes because of us. Morris and I began playing to the crowd. As I strolled past the stands, I shouted, "Bring on your 8-year olds!" In retrospect, I have to admit that was a poor choice of phrasing.

For our efforts we both received coupons for fast-food chicken. Steve later competed in a race on the field, and he won a T-shirt. Personally, I think we got hosed.

In all, though, it was a great time. And I didn’t even mention the brawl in the stands after someone punched the mascot or the couple we met, Ron and Kathleen, who were chewed out by a 245-year-old man for sitting in his seats. Minor league baseball -- fun for the whole family! Unless, of course, you’re in Trey’s family.