A Country Bumpkin’s Trip to Seattle (Part 2)
[This is an edited re-post from a prior Substack post on August 22, 2025.]
When we left off last week, I was complaining about what people pay to park near modern Gladiator professional sports-ball arenas. Silly me… I hadn’t purchased food, yet!
Upon entry into T-Mobile Park, or as the locals call it, “the Mobe,” I was ushered by the aura and spirit of my wife, who could suddenly sprint like the Bionic Woman on opening day of Girl Scout cookie season. We made a bee-line for the bobblehead giveaway. See, Ichiro Suzuki, who I’m sure could be elected President of the World and do a bang-up job at it, was about to have his number retired. Which is interesting in itself. Allow me to “squirrel!”
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Ichiro wore #51. Little known fact outside of Seattle and Japan: Ichiro went by his first name in Japan because there were three Suzukis on his team. (Suzuki is Japanese for “Smith,” and Ichiro is Russian for “Ichiro.”) When he came to Seattle, he made contact with the former player who used to wear #51, future five-time Cy Young winner Randy Johnson. In the typical, highly-honorific style of a Japanese businessman, he asked Randy’s permission to wear the number. He promised not to bring shame to it; and to use a Samurai sword to commit Seppuku if he did. Okay. I might’ve embellished that last part.
The point is, honor, grace, and respect were offered at record levels. Randy Johnson was so taken aback by the dignified request, he offered his own terribly polite response. “Okay.” After the phone call, he allegedly asked his agent, “Who was that, again?”
And his agent was like, “Ichiro. Which is Japanese for Dave or something like that…”
And Randy said, “So, it’d be like me playing in Japan with ‘Randy’ on my jersey?”
And his agent was like, “Uhhh—no! Dummy! It’d be like you playing in Japan with ‘Dave’ on your jersey. That’ll be ten percent.”
And Randy was like, “I don’t want to play in Japan. I’m 6’ 10” tall. My nickname is The Big Unit. I hear they push people onto the trains during rush hour.”
And his agent was like, “You’d never be able to use the floor level toilets. And forget about the bath houses. Make that fifteen percent.”
Anyhow… we were two days away from the retirement ceremony, and the Mariners had been giving away stuff all week. “I don’t want a bobblehead.” Which fell on deaf ears with Dorothy, because she’d crafted a plan to send mine to a dear friend, probably about seven months before I looked into buying the tickets.
We moseyed like Texas Rangers over to the closest food joint. Two burgers, one fries, and one drink (a “refillable collector’s cup”) cost us about $52. I was still trying to find some nitro pills. We wandered the stadium, taking pictures and watching the bull-pen practice.
“We need a bag to carry these,” I was told. “Let’s go into the store.” We went to the nearest merchandise store, where it was made clear to us we needed to buy something to receive a bag.
“They gave us this junk, and now we have to buy something if we want a bag to carry it,” I grumbled. But I’m pretty sure I sounded like Archie Bunker, because my wife ignored me.
“Stand in line,” she said. (It was out of the store and blocking the thoroughfare.) “I’ll go find something.” She disappeared into the melee.
Squirrel number two: Never—and I mean NEVER EVER—let a 5’ 1” inch person try to lead you through a crowded sports-ball arena.
Back to The Show.
“Is this the line?” I heard an old man say. I can call him that as an official member of the Gray Whiskers Club. We chatted a bit, about the price of food, tickets, merch… Then he dropped the bomb on me. “Yeah, it was just as crowded yesterday. And these prices! I can’t believe I’m about to spend 125 bucks on a jersey for my grandson!”
I clutched my chest, then my pearls. I just found the guy who pays $100 to park out there, I thought.
Ten minutes and eight dollars later, my wife and I paid for a Mariners badge lanyard to receive our bag. We walked the stadium a bit more, then continued to make our way to our seats, which were just on the foul-ball side of the right field foul pole. On the way, we refilled our bottomless drink. I’d be damned if we weren’t going to try and make the tech billionaires pay by sip-stealing soda.
“It’s refillable,” Dorothy said, eyes rolling. “You’re not stealing anything.”
Woman! Allow me my fantasies…
Once we were seated, we discussed the clear vinyl backpacks everyone was sporting. Apparently MLB has a security rule about bags and packs, which explains why the vultures vendors outside were selling them. Dorothy noticed one lady’s was stuffed with Pringles and other cheap snacks. Security could plainly see them, but they were allowed to bring them inside the park. Noted for next time.
We both got into watching the game. “The Mobe” was able to open the roof, as the drizzle was long gone. In fact, the sun became beautifully intense, and I wound up buying Dorothy a ball cap on a stretch break. But I wasn’t the only one moving during the game. We watched a couple plop down in front of us about the first inning, clearly too tired or timid to scoot down the crowded row to their own seats. About three innings later, a buff dude, who was super-cool—and I know this because despite the sun… he had his hat on backwards—showed up with two women (When men wear hats backwards, they’re allowed by law to take two women on the same date) and said “You’re in my seat.”
The couple in front of us stood and moved to the aisle, then went toward the field about two rows, and commenced the “Ooh! Sorry! Ooh! Watch your… Ooh! Sorry about that! Watch your toes!” operation to get down to their own seats. At which time they discovered someone was in one of them. The process started over, but only with un-cool hats being worn forward.
“This must be what it’s like to watch ‘3-card Monty’ played out with humans,” I told Dorothy. “If only the team had somehow informed them of what seats they should be sitting in. Perhaps… put it on the ticket? And who shows up to their seats in the fourth inning?”
“Ohhhh, Archie!” Edith Bunker said.
About the only other regular people in our immediate vicinity were the two gay guys and their toddler daughter seated right behind us. She kept hitting me in the back, which was fine because I definitely didn’t want to get accused of being mean to a child by the cast of Modern Family.
Fast forward to after the game. (The “Ms” won in eleven innings). We were on the way back to the ferry, passing all the same food vendors. It struck me as humorous that even with twenty or more different foods being cooked out in that alley, the strongest aroma—by far—was… the Devil’s Lettuce… the Wacky Tobacky… the Ganja… you know—Cheech and Chong’s favorite herb, Marijuana. Which is Spanish for “pain-relief-when-you’re-50-and-Motrin-doesn’t-work-anymore.”
And that’s funny, because it is 100% legal in Washington. It’s not like people have to wait until they’re amongst 30,000 other people to ‘sip steal’ a little reefer. But the smell of ‘old spice’ was a welcome reprieve from the smell of BO we endured from rude people while leaving the stadium. You think people in Costco walk around with horse blinders on? Go to a sports-ball match.
I could tell you about the rickshaws and the wanna-be influencers taking video of themselves on the ferry ride back to Kitsap County, but you’ve probably had enough by now. Just remember my favorite sports-ball cheer: “Go Mariners! And when you leave, take the Seahawks with you!”
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