By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
Regions Field was alive with people. The theme for the night was Taylor Swift. Taylor Swift music was playing overhead. The ballpark was almost completely obscured by a cloud of estrogen.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
The opposition was on the field, playing a game of pepper, while random clusters of teenage girls wandered the park, exchanging friendship bracelets.
Exchanging bracelets, I am told, is what Taylor Swift fans do when they encounter each other in the wild.
I felt like Grandpa Walton.
I met a few girls in the stands. They were maybe 11. They wore T-shirts with Taylor Swift’s face on them.
“We’re Swifties,” they pointed out.
“I would’ve never guessed,” I said.
“We have been listening to Taylor since we were little kids.”
“Time flies.”
One girl nodded. “I was nine when I first got into Taylor.”
“That long?”
They nodded in unison.
I asked how they became Swift fans.
“At first, we just liked her music. But then we sort of discovered a community of friends.”
Another girl explains, “We all kind of believe in the same things. That’s what unites us as a group.”
I asked what sorts of things those were.
“Kindness, and love.”
Her friend added: “And we also believe in being strong, and standing up for what you believe in. That’s why we do the bracelets.”
My buddy, Aaron, wore a smile and asked what I believed in. I told him I believed I would have a beer.
I got a beer and made my way through the Swifties crowding the park. They came in all ages. All sizes.
“I have actually been following Taylor since my divorce,” said a middle-aged woman I met in the concession line. “I went through a bad period and the community of fans helped me through some hard times.”
I noticed the bracelets on her arm. I asked whether her affection for Swift was about the music or equally about something else.
“I’d say it’s love,” she said. “We’re a very loving fanbase. We love Taylor, yeah, but we love each other, too. We love everyone. It’s all about love.”
I found my seat in the stands again, one beer richer. There, I met a guy named Joe. He was in the row behind me, his wife and kids were with him.
I asked if he was a Swiftie.
“No,” said Joe.
Joe was here because his son, Joseph, was throwing the first pitch tonight.
“My son is in remission,” added Joe.
I shook Joe’s son’s hand. The boy was 12, wearing a Birmingham Barrons hat. His new prosthetic leg had an American eagle emblazoned on it.
Joe and his son pointed to centerfield. In the distance stood Children’s of Alabama hospital.
“We used to watch ballgames from right up there,” said Joe Senior, gesturing to the top floors of the hospital.
“It was a really difficult time for us, but we could see all the games from way up there, and it was a good escape.”
Joe told me that in the seventh inning, traditionally, everyone in the ballpark waves their phone flashlights to the kids in the hospital, and lots of tiny phone lights usually get waved in return.
Later that night, I watched the Joseph take the mound. He was using crutches. He lobbed the first pitch nicely. The slap of the ball against the catcher’s mitt resounded, and the whole stadium cheered. Whereupon a Taylor Swift song began to blare overhead.
I, like many others, clapped as hard as I could. I whistled. I screamed. I cheered as Joseph was escorted off the mound, using crutches.
The little girl in the seat beside me gave me a Taylor friendship bracelet.
“You’d make a great Swiftie,” she said.
I guess you can count me in.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: The Middle-Aged Swiftie
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
Regions Field was alive with people. The theme for the night was Taylor Swift. Taylor Swift music was playing overhead. The ballpark was almost completely obscured by a cloud of estrogen.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
The opposition was on the field, playing a game of pepper, while random clusters of teenage girls wandered the park, exchanging friendship bracelets.
Exchanging bracelets, I am told, is what Taylor Swift fans do when they encounter each other in the wild.
I felt like Grandpa Walton.
I met a few girls in the stands. They were maybe 11. They wore T-shirts with Taylor Swift’s face on them.
“We’re Swifties,” they pointed out.
“I would’ve never guessed,” I said.
“We have been listening to Taylor since we were little kids.”
“Time flies.”
One girl nodded. “I was nine when I first got into Taylor.”
“That long?”
They nodded in unison.
I asked how they became Swift fans.
“At first, we just liked her music. But then we sort of discovered a community of friends.”
Another girl explains, “We all kind of believe in the same things. That’s what unites us as a group.”
I asked what sorts of things those were.
“Kindness, and love.”
Her friend added: “And we also believe in being strong, and standing up for what you believe in. That’s why we do the bracelets.”
My buddy, Aaron, wore a smile and asked what I believed in. I told him I believed I would have a beer.
I got a beer and made my way through the Swifties crowding the park. They came in all ages. All sizes.
“I have actually been following Taylor since my divorce,” said a middle-aged woman I met in the concession line. “I went through a bad period and the community of fans helped me through some hard times.”
I noticed the bracelets on her arm. I asked whether her affection for Swift was about the music or equally about something else.
“I’d say it’s love,” she said. “We’re a very loving fanbase. We love Taylor, yeah, but we love each other, too. We love everyone. It’s all about love.”
I found my seat in the stands again, one beer richer. There, I met a guy named Joe. He was in the row behind me, his wife and kids were with him.
I asked if he was a Swiftie.
“No,” said Joe.
Joe was here because his son, Joseph, was throwing the first pitch tonight.
“My son is in remission,” added Joe.
I shook Joe’s son’s hand. The boy was 12, wearing a Birmingham Barrons hat. His new prosthetic leg had an American eagle emblazoned on it.
Joe and his son pointed to centerfield. In the distance stood Children’s of Alabama hospital.
“We used to watch ballgames from right up there,” said Joe Senior, gesturing to the top floors of the hospital.
“It was a really difficult time for us, but we could see all the games from way up there, and it was a good escape.”
Joe told me that in the seventh inning, traditionally, everyone in the ballpark waves their phone flashlights to the kids in the hospital, and lots of tiny phone lights usually get waved in return.
Later that night, I watched the Joseph take the mound. He was using crutches. He lobbed the first pitch nicely. The slap of the ball against the catcher’s mitt resounded, and the whole stadium cheered. Whereupon a Taylor Swift song began to blare overhead.
I, like many others, clapped as hard as I could. I whistled. I screamed. I cheered as Joseph was escorted off the mound, using crutches.
The little girl in the seat beside me gave me a Taylor friendship bracelet.
“You’d make a great Swiftie,” she said.
I guess you can count me in.