Hit by a Pitch

I’m always getting in trouble at Rockies games. There was the time I almost got kicked out for heckling Barry Bonds (this was before I knew there was a jail inside Coors Field — I am terrified of the jail inside Coors Field). Then Saturday evening, there was the time I almost didn’t get in at all.

I was wearing one of my favorite shirts of all time, the one pictured here that says “CROWN THEIR ASS” above a picture of a bear bending over with a crown on his butt. It seemed like a nice day to reprezent for the Bears and change up my wardrobe that normally has less variety than Charlie Brown’s. I didn’t think much about the shirt until we were walking past Blake Street Tavern and I said to Ben, “What if they don’t let me into Coors Field because my shirt says ‘ass’ on it?” Ha, he said, that’s crazy.

Crazy indeed. I know there’s going to be trouble when the woman checking my bag says, “Ohhhhh.” She’s looking at my shirt. I smile and try to look like a nice, responsible adult, but I’m pretty sure Coors Field employees can use their super-secret Jesus power to see that I am, in fact, evil. The Power of Christ compels Shirt Police woman to explain that she’s not sure “that word” is okay. She cannot say “ass” – she just refers to it as “that word.” She calls for a second opinion. Shirt Police sidekick comes over and they discuss “the word.” He’s not sure if it’s okay. I smile and say, “Go Bears!” and of course he’s probably a Broncos fan so this doesn’t help. He decides to call in Shirt Police Deputy Lieutenant Provenza. I wonder if there’s a counter-ass-ism office somewhere in the bowels of Coors Field, where a plainclothes squadron watches the bureau chief stick a picture of a “CROWN THEIR ASS” t-shirt to a whiteboard while asking, “Okay now who would want to wear this abomination to Coors Field?” They’ll match the fingerprints from my ticket to a $20 used to purchase two beers earlier this month and I’ll go on a watch-list of dangerous suspects before someone connects me to the shirt with a hastily sketched dry-erase arrow and they’ll say they knew it was me all along.

Ben is already inside the gates, watching the Coors Field morality patrol descend from the building to stare at my left boob. Shirt Police woman explains yet again that she’s not sure about “that one word.” She may be softening a bit, because this time she says she doesn’t think it’s “so bad,” is it? What if it is “so bad,” I wonder. Will they tell me to turn the shirt inside out like a kid who violated a school dress code? Will they tell me to change? Will I argue with them and be blacklisted from Coors Field forever? Will they inform all perimeter employees to be on the lookout in case I try to sneak in through a different gate?

The Deputy Lieutenant reflects on the gravity of this situation, perhaps envisioning the chaos that might ensue if someone were to enter the hallowed aisles of Coors with the word “ass” on her shirt. It could be the beginning of the end of civilization, the final straw that pushes Denver baseball fans headfirst into years of debauchery.

Maybe not. The Deputy Lieutenant declares that it’s “not so bad.” And thusly it is decreed that the heathen in the ass shirt may go forth into the Field of Coors and enjoy the game festivities with the flock of the chosen ass-free people. The Rockies even won that game, so if you want to crown their ass, well, never mind. You’ll get in trouble.