I was 7 years old. It was August 8th, 2002. First base side, row 15, seat 12. A day engrained in my mind forever.
This…………………is my story.
In 2002 Dinger, the Rockies mascot, was the hottest ticket in town. The Rockies were terrible, as always, and in those hot summer months we as fans just wanted something to root for. Something to hold onto to. Something to cherish.
Entering 3rd grade, I was in my athletic prime. No one could hold my extra small jockstrap on the playground that summer. I was eatin kids up and spittin them out with no remorse. I OWNED that playground.
One day, everyone surrounded my buddy Hunter during playtime. What the fuck I thought, I’m the big dog on campus. What’s he gettin all the attention for? It turns out Hunter had gone to the Rockies game the day before. Not only that, this motherfucker had Polaroids. Polaroids of the game. Polaroids of him and his dad. I thought, “What’s all the hoopla about?” And then he pulls it out. The picture every little kid in Colorado wants. The picture with Dinger.
I was pissed. Hunter? That fuckin kid? Everything about this situation reeked of unfairness. Remember, I was the alpha back then. And this kid, this piece of human trash I’m calling my best friend, is not only going to a Rockies game without his boy, but he just so happens to fall into getting a picture with Dinger?
I was livid.
So that night I go home. I tell my dad, “Hey pops, we’re going to the Rockies game tomorrow.” Matter of factly, just like that. He says, “Great idea son, I’ll get some tickets.” Then I go, “Oh is that what you’re gonna do dad?” Sarcastic as fuck. “Not only that, you’re gonna help me get a picture with Dinger. Capiche?” Then, this man who claims to be my father, has the fuckin nerve to be like “Oh, I mean we’ll see what happens…” No old man, it’s happening.
So the next day we were off.
Beautiful Coors Field. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. It was a beautiful day to watch a baseball game. More importantly, it was perfect lighting to get a picture with Dinger.
The whole time my dad was pretending we were there for the baseball game, which really pissed me off. He bought me peanuts, a hot dog, the whole shebang. This man was truly clueless. What I was waiting for was to get my hands on this purple dinosaur. I stayed patient enough. I saw him on the jumbotron. I saw him getting in the pitchers head behind the plate. He was playing the part well enough. I knew I just had to bide my time, wait for the right opportunity to pounce.
And then, right in the middle of the 7th inning stretch, my dad was talking about how Todd Helton goes through a whole bag of seeds a game or some bullshit like that. I didn’t care, we only had 2 more innings to get what I came here for.
And then it happened.
Dinger came down my section. I looked that beast straight in his humongous eyeballs. I grabbed my oblivious fathers arm. “It’s time.”
My dad, god bless him, lifted me up and started shouting, “Dinger! Dinger! Dinger!” Luckily for us, a white guy was at the plate, so there wasn’t any confusion about what we were shouting.
Then, like Jesus coming down on a cloud, Dinger was right there in front of me. “DAD GRAB THE CAMERA.” It was all going according to plan. We were in position to take the picture. I looked up at Dinger. Dinger looked down at me. Magic was taking place. “Say cheese!” And boom, I had exactly what I wanted. A picture with my hero.
With my prize in hand, I smiled up at the Dinosaur, “So Dinger, what are you doin after the game. Maybe we could hang out?” Shootin my shot, as always.
A voice came down from the great beast.
“I don’t hangout with Humans, they’re the scum of the earth.”
And that’s when I knew. It’s exactly what I had feared.
Dinger was racist.
-MustacheMan
