The Concession Stand

"Good game, good game, good game, good game."

I shuffle in a line with my teammates, high-fiving our opponents. My red and black softball uniform sticks to my sweaty skin, courtesy of several trips around the bases in Midwestern humidity. We retrieve our equipment from the dugout and surrender it to the team that plays next in this weekend-long tournament. The sun is somehow more uncomfortable without the distraction of an impending defensive play or upcoming base hit.

But the sun’s heat is no longer all-consuming as I join my teammates for an important ritual. An inevitability in the world of cleats, leather gloves, and aluminum bats. The piéce de résistance of any summer tournament.

The Concession Stand.

Even the most basic concession stands boast a culinary smorgasbord. Slightly stale, overly-salted corn chips topped with canned chili and hot, melted cheese. Brightly colored, sugary sport drinks (my favorites were blue). Giant pretzels having a dalliance with the nacho’s melted cheese.

Then there are the elite, five-star stands. The ones that attract all manner of gourmands. They are not run by the usual teenagers looking to make a few dollars while their siblings play ball. No, these concessions are manned by the PTA moms, with their designer sunglasses, local team apparel, and fresh summer pedicures. The moms offer all the staples, as well as hot dogs, hamburgers, and snow cones. This rare, delectable spread entices me after back-to-back games in the scorching heat, and my parents graciously pay for the overpriced items.

Arms full, I find my teammates sprawled out on large, quilted blankets on a grassy hill. On days of loss, we take small comfort in the familiar tastes. The sharp crunch of the chips echoes for miles as we sit quietly with one another. The creamy, vibrant yellow cheese offers a bit of artificial sunshine to mirror the sky above, even in our small, personal storms. And the colorful, sugary snow cones revive us, so that we are ready to rally and take on a new challenger.

But on days of triumph, we boisterously share our concession stand conquests and play card games. We hide the catcher’s shoes and take turns throwing bits of thick, bready pretzel into each other’s mouths. The air is thick with laughter and the scent of greasy, ketchup-covered hamburgers. I swap the end of my meal with friends, eager to compare this weekend’s concession stand delights with those of our last tournament. We have a very sophisticated evaluation process, and award this particular stand four stars (after all, their burgers had cheese slices as an option).

We wait for our turn on a different field, facing a new team. The current game runs long, so we cannot help but return to the Concession Stand. This time, the plethora of candies and snacks call my name. I clutch my last couple of dollars and deliberate on my options. Will it be a slightly melted, rich chocolate candy bar? A fistful of bubble gum hard enough to make my jaw ache? Or a bag of sunflower seeds who's spent shells will inevitably coat the dugout floor?

In the end, I give in to the infamous large dill pickle. The bright green juice spreads through the napkin encasing the pickle even before I receive the bright blue sport drink I buy with my remaining change. I punctuate my return to my team’s blanketed turf with crunchy bites. Fresh pickle juice permeates my hands; my batting gloves will smell vaguely of salt and vinegar for the rest of the day.

The game we were waiting on finally ends, and I join my teammates in a new dugout. We are refueled, rejuvenated, and re-centered after our foray into the Concession Stand. I take my position at third base, electricity coursing through my body. The softball field is my happy place, and summer months are euphoric. Even though I am quickly coated in a thick layer of brick-red dirt, I smile. Because I am surrounded by friends who support and challenge me. Because I have coaches who develop and encourage me. Because my self-confidence expands like a balloon with every passing year.

But mostly because my summers taste like nacho cheese.