Reserve Level, Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles- Every where one travels there are levels. And I ain't talking about what Kramer needed for his apartment in Jerry Seinfeld's world. The ones I am referring to are social levels and in this case in particular media levels. As I sit high above the action in front of a guy two rows behind me who thinks nothing of deriding St. Louis Cardinals third baseman Mark DeRosa for having the audacity to take time out after he hit his head sliding into the knee of Dodgers first baseman James Loney, I think of the social strata that occupies those reporting the Major League Baseball playoffs.
Count me at a similar level as that of my Beta fish (or his preference Siamese Fighting Fish) Bubbles-alternately lovable and tenacious. But in the eyes of other fish, he is just another low gill-flapper in the food chain. Bubs and I are of the same breed, insignificant to everyone around us. But don't cry for us, we are actually happy in our anonymity. As I look around at those trying to get up the Major League pecking order, I have to shake my head in amusement at the schmoozing (Yiddish for “talking about nothing” literally).
Watching the hens (Relax pc patrol, I'm talking about the men) gather and cluck there way in little groups, they virtually ignore the weeklies, Web site writers, and small town scribes like myself. It reminds me of a Hollywood party.
But as I sit among my brethren in the Reserve Section, it is a nice comfortable feeling, talking baseball with like-minded individuals who love and know the game- the knucklehead a couple of rows behind us, notwithstanding.
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