A TG Day at the Old Ball Game

"Right you are, Steeeve. Lookit, oneaddem caught that fowl bawl! He's havin' a good ol' time at the bawlpahk, or she, ah whatevvah!"

No, don't get the wrong idea. This wasn't the Cubbies, just the Cincinnati Reds and Atlanta Braves, and Harry Caray and Steve Stone were nowhere to be found. I don't know if the ol' left hander, Joe Nuxhall, or Marty Brennaman, the Reds' announcers, noticed Angela or myself right under the press box at Cinergy Field, in the middle of the green seats directly behind home plate, but I guess it doesn't matter. What mattered is this: here we were, a TS and a CD, out at the baseball game, clad in nice, cool, short denim skirts and loose tops - and nobody ever gave us a sideways glance. In fact, the lady at the Heineken kiosk popped and poured my brewskis, and spoke to me with all the proper ma'ams and ladylike respect. "Did you ladies enjoy the game?" was asked of Angela by a street vendor on Pete Rose Way. The answer is, absolutely. You'd better believe it! Were we read? Absolutely, but nobody bothered us, and why should they? We were just a couple a cute ladies having a good time at the ballpark, like 35,000 other good people.

Like many good times, this was completely unplanned. My houseguest, Angela Bridgman, and I, were driving from Columbus, Ohio, where I purchased some custom-made kitchen cupboards from Cathy Platine, the President of Crystal Club, and a friend from GenderPAC Lobby Days in May. I have a policy of doing business with others in the gender community whenever possible, providing this is encouraged by the parties involved. Her work is impeccable, and looks fabulous in my kitchen. While in Columbus, we enjoyed an evening meeting with the fine folks at Crystal Club, finally closing down a club called "Wall Street" with several of the group members.

On our way back south on I-71 the next day, we happened to turn on WLW, just in time to hear Jack McKeon, the new manager of the Reds, discuss the impossible dream; how to hit the pitches of Greg Maddux, of the Atlanta Braves. The radio station confirmed that plenty of tickets were left for this Sunday afternoon game, and the plot thickened. We stopped in a Shell station near Morrow, OH., for fuel, and changed out of our very prim and proper tight skirts and frilly blouses, substituting short denim skirts and cool, loose tops in the ladies' room. With little time to spare, we tore through Cincinnati at noon like an oil slick fire, and exited at Pete Rose Way, sliding into a parking spot about 3 blocks from Cinergy Field, as the "Star Spangled Banner" played. For those of you who haven't partaken of the great American pastime in person, it's quite a spectacle. Television does not do justice to the game of baseball, and neither does the Astroturf-matted Cinergy Field. I much prefer Fenway Park in Boston, Red Sox fan that I am, and Angela is still nostalgic for the old Comiskey Park on the South Side of Chicago, her hometown. One takes what one has available, and the atmosphere of a Sunday afternoon at the ballpark is one of the simple pleasures of life. The sounds of "Get yer peanuts here!", and the ever-popular "Iceee cold Bud, get yer Iceee cold Bud!" fill the air; kids with their parents, the tykes carrying mitts just in case; everyone wearing red and white jerseys; and the aroma of hot dogs complete the scene. It's heaven for a couple hours, and I usually don't care if I ever get back...

We made our way to our seats, purchased from a scalper desperate to unload his crop of good green seats behind home plate for nearly face value. By the way, the scalper was smart enough to ma'am us, and that helped; the temperature was 98 degrees, and I know my makeup was beginning to melt. We sat down, procured beers, and I studied the pinpoint control and pitch selection of Greg Maddux; boy-crazed Angela was fixated on Chipper Jones' gluteal musculature. The Braves took an early lead from Dave Burba, the Reds' pitcher, who left early with back problems, which they held the rest of the way. Their lead was threatened in the bottom of the 9th, when Deion Sanders singled, stole 2nd, then scored on a single by Reggie Sanders, but the Reds could not maintain the rally in the face of Mark Wohlers' 97-mph fastballs. The Braves won 3-2, and the high point for us was when Chipper Jones hit a pop foul-directly at Angela! She caught it in self defense, and we waited for the press to arrive, imagining headlines like this: "Trannie catches foul ball at Cinergy Field". Or, is that "Trannie wanting to have them removed catches another?"

All good things must end, and despite a pinch-hit and stolen base by Deion Sanders, the Braves emerged victorious. By this time, my knees were screaming for mercy from being crammed into a narrow aisle, and we were both ready for my Caravan's air conditioning. A pizza was in order, and we stopped at the LaRosa's Pizza on Buttermilk Pike in Crescent Springs, KY., for some of that good hearth-baked pizza that we don't have in Louisville, KY. Desiree was our waitress, and she greeted us with the proper ma'ams, and later talked to us frankly about our day at the ballpark and our attire. I would not be surprised if she knew other crossdressers.

In the past months, I've taken on some very unusual crossdressing destinations. I've been to the ballpark, I've attended 2 concerts (Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and John Fogerty) femme, sung karaoke, driven on long distance trips through God-forsaken West Virginia, and lobbied Congress twice. On no occasion have I received any problems whatsoever. Yes, I get the occasional sideways glance, stage whisper, or question about why I might dress this way. I don't mind that. Criticism of my crossdressing doesn't bother me, because, after all, I am very much a guy in a dress - and that's OK. We exist, and we're tired of hiding, and guess what, boys and girls; we don't have to.

Freedom and Mascara!

Annette Louise Casebeer
Vice President, Bluegrass Belles
Member of Cross-Port and the Tennessee Vals.