Eat, Eat, Eat For The Home Team

I find myself in Tullahoma, Tennessee at the Babe Ruth field in Waggoner Park. Never been here before. It is merely one in a succession of fields where Rutherford County middle school boys meets to play ball . . . baseball. Me and this Chevy Silverado extended cab pickup are a means to an end for the next two months. Already I am irritated. My highly responsible 13-year old son wore the wrong uniform for this game. His coach is strict and very verbal in his displeasure with his players. The drive out here may be for nothing more than a stiff chewing out. What I paid in gas to get us here warrants more purpose than that. The outside temperature is too chilly for my sweater-less form; it seems I neglected to don the proper attire, too. I chew out myself since my mother is not around.

Sitting in my parked truck-cum-taxi, snug but isolated, I attempt a snooze session despite the intense glare emanating from the stadium lights. When this effort fails, I try repeatedly to make out my son's number and position from my disadvantaged point because I think the coach actually allowed him to play. It's no good. I'm restless. Just killing time in agonizing one-second increments. In my mind, a miniature American Indian medicine man executes a complex series of movements with his hands and feet, chanting all the while, begging his God for a thunderous, torrential, earth-shattering rainstorm to drop down from the heavens and end it all. "Wow," I chastise myself, "some baseball booster mom YOU are, Gloria!"

Shifting in my seat, I turn my attention toward the crowd of parents on the other of side my pseudo foxhole, braving the stiff breeze of this early spring night out in the cold metal stands. Though there are several die-hards glued to the action at homeplate and beyond, many mothers and fathers entertain themselves with chit-chat, cellphones and . . . oh . . . and fo-o-od. That's it. I need something to gnaw on. It is time for a food intervention, er, intermission. I can leave the comfort of my cab for a cheap game burger with mustard. It actually warms me just to entertain the notion. Now that the idea has taken root in my mind, I really need to fork over a buck for my very own foil-wrapped grill-marked patty-package, ASAP!

I crave ball park fare now and again. This does not gel with my flax seed and brown rice, fruit and nuts, fish and chicken eating-style, but must everything make sense? Perhaps the crack of the bat, coupled with the announcer's droll monotone coverage of the action, both wafting along in the crisp evening air, stimulates some inert, previously suppressed appetite within. Perhaps just under my exterior there lies an all-American patriotic devotee of all things connected to baseball, edible and inedible. I don't know-w-w, but I refuse to take up any more time contemplating such unknown and unimportant quantities. I've got a burger to catch, er, order.

I arrive at the concession stand and wait while a cluster of players hurries to purchase snacks and drinks before their coach notices their absence. I note they ask for cheeseburgers and hot dogs along with all manner of gummy, chewy, hard, and chocolaty candy, and brightly-colored sports drinks. No worries. My turn is fast approaching; I am a paragon of studied patience. After all, I am an adult example to our precious youth. Finally, the last gray-panted and cleat-footed boy leaves with food in hand. I smile and open my mouth to request my heart's desire just as the man behind the counter makes an announcement, "No more cheeseburgers. Sold out. We've got plenty of hot dogs and BBQ, though, and lots of candy!" Grrr. Just for the briefest of moments, I want to throttle the scrawny neck of a precious burger-hogging youth.

Well, hot dogs are definitely out. I must draw the line somewhere - the intersection where chopped chicken parts collide with chopped pork and beef parts seems a good place for that line. Checking my change, I shift mental gears, wishing for a Snickers bar and a salty bag of oiled popcorn, neither of which are anywhere on the menu. After accepting a sample for my consideration by the truly friendly cashier, I opt for the pulled-pork BBQ sandwich @ $2.50 a pop - ouch - served up on pristine white Styrofoam plates which offend my deeply embedded proclivities toward recycling. I almost back out of the deal, my initial enthusiasm - so heartily developed back at the truck - now dampened at having to not ONLY alter my selection but also being forced to ante up double the money AND accept the most disgusting piece of ubiquitous plastic I can think of! However, my appetite has asserted itself as master and commander of this bodily vessel. There is only one true choice realistically available to me.

Plate in hand, I hand over my cash and perform a sideways shuffle to the condiments situated at the left end of the counter. I load on several spoonfuls of a thick red sauce marked HOT -- one will not suffice as I'm certain these people don't understand what hot is -- along with a few spoonfuls more of the thin brown MILD sauce. The visual contrast is pleasing to my experienced foodie eye as is the satisfying seep of the sauces into the white doughy bread beneath the heaped pile. Per the pre-knowledge afforded my curious palate, I know the pork to be tasty, smoky, not the least bit dry, with the telltale deep pink edges of a well-roasted meat. I am salivating, all thoughts of landfills and clogged waterways erased by desirous, insidious, all-invasive hunger.

With my first bite, I realize I've spooned in error. The HOT sauce should come equipped with a fire truck, complete with red lights flashing and sirens screaming! Hiccups - my physiological reaction to intense spicy heat - convulse my diaphragm almost immediately. I try my best to rescue the pricey protein portion, ditching the heat-soaked bread. I chew furiously between wracking guttural spasms, swallowing too quickly, as I realize nothing is gonna' stop this train from barreling down the tracks full force. I beat a hasty return to the food stand for a Caramello candy bar with which to coat my tongue and quell the burn as ice cream is unavailable. This works with limited success that will have to suffice. My lesson is learned - absorbed right along with the radiating warmth yet running rampant in my mouth - to absolutely trust the simple labeling to be found on condiment containers at foreign venues. Crud. This would never happen with a burger. Yellow mustard is yellow mustard. Nothing to discern there. Tried, true, and familiar.

Still, I want to be fair. This fire-in-the-piehole mishap not withstanding, I appreciate the time-honored preparation and classic rich flavor of my porcine selection. And, for a middle school booster-sponsored concession stand, it is a unique option for the hectically hungry and harried hordes of fans -- A.K.A. parents, siblings, relatives -- who loyally flock to these gatherings to support their young sultans of swat. I can honestly report that I wholeheartedly recommend the pulled pork sandwich to all visitors at the Babe Ruth baseball field in Tullahoma, Tennessee.

The best time to try for this: March. Though Whitt's Barbecue is responsible for smoking the meat and NOT some sweet country mee-maw using a very old, and very secret, family recipe, it just won't deliver a home run without the presence of adolescent boys stamping their feet on the diamond of America's most beloved and classic game as that first bite satisfies the stomach. Trust me.

I'm a fan.