Take Me Out, Part II

John Updike described Fenway as a "lyric little bandbox of a ballpark." If Updike had ever turned his descriptive powers on Nationals Park, he might have described it thus: "Ah, well, it's got seats and everything, and they play ball there, so I guess it counts as a ballpark."

Nationals Park--or NaPa, as some might call it--does not have much character. But then, is character really so great? "Character" is rusted bleachers that heat up to egg-frying levels under the summer sun. "Character" is a jellyfish-size wad of bubble gum jammed in the water fountain. "Character" is seats so steep they require crampons and a belaying line. No, sometimes antiseptic works fine.

We arrived maybe half an hour before they kicked off. Er, pitched off. Whatever figure of speech they use in baseball. Outside the ballpark, a classic rock cover band was playing in some kind of tent-arena thing. I never figured out why, why they were playing and why they were walled off by a big plastic barrier. Was it to keep non-paying freeloaders from hearing their version of "The Weight?"

Seats were surprisingly cheap: $26. OK, make that "surprisingly cheap for any team aside from the Washington Nationals and maybe the Pittsburgh Pirates." Each ticket came with a free inferiority complex, a requirement for any true Nats fan.

We sat right behind that base where the man with the glove does that thing. I really can't tell. My baseball knowledge ends with the spoken interlude in "Paradise By the Dashboard Light." And with that frank confession I must leave you for this evening. More to come tomorrow.