Sunday Sunday, Contd.

Watching ballplayers half my age doesn’t make me feel old, not really.  But going to a ballpark does.

My dear daughter is what I think they call a tech native, meaning she was born to the stuff.  Not me.  During the game Sunday, two White Sox “ambassadors” made their way to our seats, asking, “Is anyone here Clare?”  And they looked at me.  Wow, for a second I thought they might be confusing me with General Claire Chennault of Flying Tigers’ WW II fame, but no such luck.  They wanted my progeny, Boom Clare, as she goes on Twitter.  The child had tweeted something team-related that earned her an autographed photo of Jose Abreu.  I tried to stay out of the way as her picture was taken.

Then we have the matter of ballpark music.  Nancy Faust at the organ is long gone, replaced by the sound system from Hell, which explains using AC/DC to pump up the crowd.  I actually know the song that plays before the White Sox take the field.  It’s “Thunderstruck,” only I know it from the TV series “Supernatural.”  So, while everyone else is cheering for Tim Anderson and Yoan Moncada, I’m looking for the Winchester brothers to sprint out of the dugout and start decapitating ghouls and monsters.  Can’t we just go back to Na-Na-Na-Na Hey-Hey Goodbye and call it a day?

And I still can’t figure out why a ballgame needs an m.c.  The game on Sunday had one, a guy who’d pop up on the video board between innings to interview fans or direct everyone’s attention to some lame contest being played during warmups.  Eliminate this crap and a game might not go two hours.  Eliminate this crap, and I wouldn’t be going crazy in my seat.

The Sox pioneered the idea of turning back the clock, to dress the players in old uniforms and announce batters with a megaphone.  How 20th century, how my cup of tea.