America’s New Pastime | By Karina Forbes Bohn

America’s New Pastime

written by Karina Forbes Bohn

5th Place

As I walk through the gates, the biosecurity team is a bit intimidating at first. Dressed in their protective gear, they remind me of the movie “Monsters, Inc.” Remember when one of the factory workers accidentally brought a kid’s sock back through the portal after their nightly shift? The poor thing had to be power washed and shaved down nearly naked.

But for me, this isn’t a Pixar movie. This is real life.

Three men in yellow hazmat suits stand at the entrance, waiting to take my temperature and scan my clothing for any traces of COVID-19. Or maybe they’re women? It’s hard to tell. The suits’ internal compressors take away any chance of an educated guess.

I briefly remove my mask to provide the mandatory respiratory sample, wait 10 seconds for the “all clear” green light, then move to the temperature station. The beam quickly scans my forehead, and the overhead display shows a reassuring 98.6 degrees. I move to the final step, which I’m told is the roughest — UV light immersion, combined with a disinfectant aerosol wash. All external, of course.

Turns out the tests aren’t as invasive as I think they will be. But still, is this what it takes to go to a baseball game these days?

I figure I’ll grab a hot dog and a beer before sitting down, in an attempt to keep a tiny bit of tradition alive. As I stand in line, I feel a slight breeze, then hear a whirring above my head. A monotone female voice begins to kindly, yet firmly tell me that I’m not maintaining the standard six feet of social distance between customers. So begins the awkward backup process, kind of like when you can’t get your ticket to work at the parking gate.

Finally, when I safely reach the front of the line, I try to place my order.

“A large beer and a chili dog,” I say.

“A large beer and a Philly dog?” the server asks.

Clearly, my homemade PPE, crafted from two hair ties and a PetSmart bandana my dog received at her last grooming appointment, is better at muzzling my order than protecting me from germs. My poor pup wasn’t quite sure what to make of me as I left the house.

“A LARGE BEER. And a CHILI dog. A CHILI DOG! A HOT DOG WITH CHILI, PLEASE!” I repeat. I am trying to simultaneously yell my order, maintain six feet of space, and keep a polite disposition.

“A large beer and a chili dog. That will be $15,” says the server.

I hand her a $20, tell her to keep the change, then step over to the human cattle pen where everyone waits for their burgers and hot dogs. How ironic.

I’ve always said that a sporting event brings out humanity at its best and worst, and a post-pandemic baseball game is no different. Take this makeshift corral for instance. You have the “this is all a government hoax” guy, who refuses to maintain a six-foot distance. He’s especially rude to people who wear PPE, because apparently we are “part of the conspiracy.” You have your ubercareful folks with N95 masks and sterile gloves who don’t even want to look at you. Maybe they think the virus can be transmitted through eye contact? I guess they don’t understand they can stay home and watch the game on TV.

But then, they must reason, if they watch the game from home, they can’t catch a foul ball in the stands. But does anyone really want to catch a foul ball these days? I mean, did the clubhouse manager use a special sanitized version of Lena Blackburne Baseball Rubbing Mud? Did the batboy use hand sanitizer when he gave the ball to the umpire? What about

when the umpire gave the ball to the catcher? When the catcher threw it to the pitcher? And did the pitcher lick his fingertips before he threw it to the batter?

You know what, I think I’m going to let the others fight it out. I’ve always said that no foul ball is worth losing my life over.

Today, I really mean it.

About the Author

Karina Forbes Bohn is the Chief Operating Officer of the Global Sport Institute at Arizona State University. Before joining ASU, she was a front office executive with the Arizona Diamondbacks baseball team from 2004 to 2016. Karina lives in Scottsdale, Arizona with her husband Brad, son Cade and daughter Carson.

Why Karina wrote this story:

“Having worked in baseball for years, I’ve had a lot of first-hand experience watching the general public interact in a mass setting, and I thought it would be interesting to envision how this would play out in the ‘new normal.’ I have empathy for the operations staff at every sports facility, who I know will put in countless hours trying to make fans feel safe while still enabling them to have an enjoyable experience. Trying to balance these two sometimes-competing interests is going to be a challenge.”