May 3: For It's Root, Root Root For The Visiting Team!

The home team's pitcher stands on the rubber and peers over his glove at his catcher. He shakes off his teammate's first sign and goes into his windup following the second. As he rocks his weight on his left leg, his right foot toes the strip of white on the mound and settles just in front of it. He shifts his weight to his right leg as his left rises and crosses his body, cocking the gun that is his right arm.

Upon its release, the red-laced, white ball hangs in the air for a bit too long. The right-handed visiting slugger waits for it to drop into his zone as he brings the barrel of the bat around to meet the white ball of leather, yarn, string, and cork. The crack of ash echoes throughout the sold-out crowd and the ball soars over the left field wall into a sea of silent fans.

I leap to my feet with joy and yell my support as the batter jogs around the bases. All around me, fans remain seated and shoot me glaring looks of hatred as my hands slap each other with furious repetition. I remain standing. I remain screaming. My applauding fails to cease. My team has just scored and I want the 43,000 fans around me to know who I'm rooting for.

There isn't anything like cheering for the visiting team. It's a weird feeling being the minority at a ballpark. I've supported the Padres in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Washington D.C., and Pittsburgh in that order and seen them win the first two and lose the last two. I was humiliated in a crowd of over 50,000 in L.A. as my beloved Padres gave up the lead in the eighth, but was overjoyed to watch them regain it and win the ballgame in the ninth. The game in San Francisco was a close one, but again, I was able to hold my head high as I walked out with a Friar's victory. After waiting through a three hour and eleven minute rain delay in D.C., however, I had to walk out in shame as the Nationals scored thirteen times compared to one Padres' run. My team took three games of a four-game series from the Pirates and yet I was at the one game they had lost.

It's a tight rope to walk. To sit in a crowd wearing the visiting team's colors. If your team wins, it feels great. But if your team loses and you're the minority, humiliation is an understatement. Walking out wearing that jersey and cap is like walking out with a sign that reads, "Make fun of me, please!" There isn't any point in arguing or getting upset. You just have to smile at the hecklers, laugh with the taunts and act as though none of it matters.

For as long as I can remember, I have been asking for an authentic Padres jersey and I finally got my wish this past Christmas. Ironically, I had to move away from San Diego and my Padres before receiving my gift. Now that I'm in a city that A, doesn't have a Major League team and B, is closest to a city who's team is outside of the Padres' division, I rarely have an opportunity to wear it. A jersey isn't a piece of clothing that you can wear on a (non-baseball related) date or to dinner with friends. It has to hang in the closet and collect dust for just the right occasion.

This Saturday, however, I will be making my maiden voyage to Houston to watch the Astros take on the Swingin' Friars and guess what I will be wearing. Guess how I will be acting in the event of a Padres' run. I only hope that I will be walking away from Minute Maid Park with a feeling of pride and not that of embarrassment.