FIPS Rant of the Week -- Ball Fields Edition

Image via goestotwelve.com

While we could endlessly debate the merits of living in Park Slope (see FIPS comments section, daily) there’s no argument to be made against the main attraction – Prospect Park.

Opened in 1867 and now host to 8 million visitors annually, the park has largely fulfilled its destiny becoming – as James Stranahan predicted at the time –  “a favorite resort for all classes of our community, enabling thousands to enjoy pure air, with healthful exercise, at all seasons of the year..."

Thanks to the careful planning of the park’s designers, there’s no shortage of spots for bird watching, dog swimming and general lazing about. Plenty of places to enjoy an afternoon letting your kids off the proverbial leash and letting them get their ya-yas out. And, on this fine, Indian Summer Saturday, when my son and a few of his friends sought to partake of the nation’s pastime, the woman who qualifies as my new favorite neighborhood resident and her two little ones had chosen the last available baseball field for their ya-ya releasing. Now, anyone who’s seen “Field of Dreams” knows this is not a good idea.  As James Earl Jones said, “People will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.”  So, just sayin’, it may be a good idea not to be sitting there when they do.

For a moment, however, it appeared luck was on our side. As we approached, the woman stood up, and I asked if she happened to be leaving. Now – this is an important detail – I didn’t ask her if she would move. I asked if she was leaving. If she wasn’t willing, we were ready to move on. Her response was something to the effect of “I guess so,” which I took to mean that the kids’ moods had turned or it was nap-time or snack-time or whatever and she was packing it in.  As she gathered up her things, we unpacked ours. I was vaguely aware of a toddler tantrum being thrown but, with two tweens of my own, I long ago learned to tune those out.

I soon learned that “I guess so” meant “Actually, I wasn’t leaving but I’m not just going to tell you that. I’d rather agree begrudgingly, and then get passive-aggressive with you.”  Because the next thing I know my dear neighbor is approaching me with a bit of free advice (which is always the best kind): “You could have said thank you.” I was sort of stunned, and simply replied “I thought you were leaving.” This, apparently, was not a satisfactory response for Emily Post. It only served to get her riled up and spit out something about whether I could hear the screaming child in the background (Um, it’s the Slope. There’s always a screaming child in the background) and how she couldn’t believe my attitude (which she wouldn’t believe, had I actually given her any).

Now, I’m sure there is no shortage of reasons to call me a dick. I have, at least on occasion, acted dick-ish. This was not such an occasion. And really, truly, there are 585 acres of Prospect Park on which to plant your keister. But, for the love of Pete (Rose), the baseball fields are not one of those places. Pick a spot that’s made for keister-planting! Do you sit on the road and harass the joggers for jogging?  Do you picnic in the middle of the bandshell stage and expect the concerts to work around you? Do you invade the zoo and tell the baboons to beat it?

So to you, dear neighbor, since you so desperately needed to hear it: Thank you! Enjoy the off season.