Mi casa not necessarily su casa, or, enter at your own risk

TIM DUNBAR
dunbar@mscd.edu

   Dum da dum dum… The story you are about to read is fiction. None of the following happened; not one detail is true. The situation, which happens every day in this country, has been changed to protect the guilty.
   Dum da dum dum daaaaa.
   Sunday, April 2, 2006. The time: 11:18 p.m. Four men and three women scale the smooth brick wall just outside the southwest corner of Coors Field.    Packs strapped to their backs, ropes in hand, they climb. Flashlights shine at random in search of security, police, or any authority that could thwart their efforts. Silently, stealthily they pull themselves upward and on to their goal: to get inside, to live free and breathe the sacred air within the confines of “The Best Place on Earth.”
   Sweat courses the brow of one of the men. His hands are clammy, nerves afire. The others grunt and groan with the effort of scaling the fortress. They do not speak. Each knows his mission, each knows its risks.
   A woman loses her grip. She grabs blindly at the rope, but to no avail. She slides, hands burning through her thin gloves, to the bottom. She breathes heavily, nearly collapsing in exhaustion. Stretching her tired and stiffening limbs, quietly humming “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” she begins the ascent again, confident that this time she’ll make it into the coveted place.
   One of the men reaches the top far ahead of the others. Through the barbed-wire fence he sees the promised land. A lush, green, well manicured field stretches out under a full moon, empty seats abound. He imagines he can smell the hot dogs, taste the beer, peanuts and Cracker Jack. In his head, he hears the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the call of the umpire. The others hear it as well; they see it, they smell it, and so, they climb.
   After all seven reach the top, the first to arrive takes a bolt-cutter from his pack and cuts the thick wire that separates the outside, that dismal, hopeless, and foreboding place, from the inside, where, just over 12 hours from now, America’s pastime will open yet another glorious season under the sun and stars. So great was their desire to be a part of it, so overwhelming their passion for its traditions, its splendor, its Americana that these seven risked life, limb, and incarceration, to get here.
   Once inside the park, the seven find their perch, somewhere they can call home. They choose seats behind the visitor’s dugout, just far enough up from the field to escape suspicion. In the morning they will hide, seeking refuge in the restrooms, behind pillars, in stairwells. They will move about, countering the security guards, the police-—the dreaded authorities. They will remain invisible, undetected; so that come game time, they can once again find their place in the sun among these most desired surroundings. This is what they have planned, worked, and risked everything for.
   Monday, April 3, 2006. The time: 4:34 a.m. A security guard shines his flashlight onto the sleeping eyelids of one of the men. The man stirs then sits bolt upright, fully awake. He is speechless, his eyes like a fawn’s caught in a Mack truck’s headlights. Will this be the end, the man thinks to himself. Is it over for us? The others awaken. They, too, are silent. They wonder to themselves, should we run, hide, leave and go back out there? Many questions run through their minds, too many questions, but no answers.
   The security guard scans the seven with his flashlight, looking into their faces, seeing their desperation, their anxiety, their fear. There will be no running, no more hiding, the seven think, but do not say. The jig is up; we have been caught, captured; about to be exiled from this sanctuary.up; we have been caught, captured, about to be exiled from this sanctuary.
   Then, as if harkened by a voice from above, the four men and three women hear:
   “ Welcome to Coors Field! Make yourselves at home; these seats are yours now. Don’t worry, the season-ticket holders who actually paid for them won’t mind; they’re used to paying for people who come in here the way you folks did. Can I get you a hot dog, a beer, maybe a Rockies jersey? They’re on the house. Well, actually, someone else is paying for that, too; but it’s Okay, they’re used to seeing their hard-earned money go toward supporting people who don’t think they have to go through the proper channels to get what they want. But, please, don’t think of yourselves as criminals, we prefer the term, ‘unticketed spectators.’”
   Stunned, the seven sit motionless, filled with joy, yet in shock over what they have just heard. Can this be true, they wonder. Surely not; no one in his right mind would allow such a thing.
   Dum da dum dum daaaaa...