So, Orioles Pride Night was circled on my calendar. Not because I’m some die-hard baseball fanatic, mind you, but these kinds of nights, they have a certain pull. You figure, yeah, go show some support, be part of something. Plus, Camden Yards on a decent evening isn’t the worst place to be, even if the O’s are, well, being the O’s.
First thing, of course, is the “what to wear” dilemma. You don’t want to look like you’re trying to be the grand marshal of a parade you didn’t sign up for, but you also don’t want to look like you just wandered in by mistake. I dug around in my closet, found an old rainbow-ish striped shirt that wasn’t too loud. Subtlety, that’s my game. Or so I tell myself. Then I thought, “Is this too much? Too little?” Ended up just going with a plain dark shirt and a small pin. Figured that was safe. You know how it is, you overthink these things.
Getting there was its own little adventure. I usually drive, but parking down there is a nightmare, and they charge you an arm and a leg. So, I thought, “Light rail it is!” Good idea in theory. Except, everyone else and their cousin had the same brilliant idea. Packed in like sardines. I swear, I made eye contact with this one guy who was also clearly regretting his public transport decision. We shared a moment of silent, sweaty understanding. That’s community for you, I guess.
Once I actually got into the stadium, the atmosphere was pretty good. You could feel a bit of a buzz. They had all the rainbow banners up, and the team store was hawking special Pride merch. The line for that stuff was insane. People were buying up those hats like they were going out of style. I just peeked in, saw the prices, and noped right out of there. I’m there for the experience, not to empty my wallet on a cap I’ll wear twice.
Here’s a list of things that always get me at these events:
- The sheer price of a bottle of water. Seriously, it’s water.
- The forced corporate “we care” messages on the jumbotron. Some of it feels genuine, some of it… less so.
- Trying to find a cleanish restroom. It’s a quest.
- That one overly enthusiastic fan who spills beer on you. Almost a guarantee.
The game itself? Well, it was a baseball game. There were hits, there were outs. I think someone hit a home run at some point. The big thing I remember was this group next to me. Looked like a family, couple of kids, all decked out. The kids were having a blast, faces painted, waving little flags. And you see that, and you think, okay, this is why it matters. It’s not just about the team or the sport for a lot of people on nights like this. It’s about feeling seen, feeling like you belong somewhere, even if it’s just for a few hours at a ballpark.
I even bought one of those overpriced hot dogs. You sort of have to, right? It’s part of the ritual. It tasted… like a stadium hot dog. No surprises there. What was funny was watching people try to do the wave. It’d start strong, then peter out, then someone would try to revive it three sections over. A real metaphor for life, that.
Leaving was the usual chaos. Everyone shuffling out, tired but mostly happy. My feet were killing me by the time I got back to the light rail station. And guess what? Still packed. But it was different on the way back. Quieter. People looking at their phones, probably posting pictures. I just sort of stood there, thinking it wasn’t a bad way to spend an evening. You go, you see people, you’re part of a crowd. Sometimes that’s enough. It’s these little outings, these small efforts, that stick with you more than the big, fancy stuff. Glad I dragged myself out for it.
