A quandary at Camden Yards

LIFE TRULY is complicated.

A dilemma has developed this summer. Long hooked on the diamond sport, I painfully vowed to quit the seven-decade addiction. The proverbial straw came in an early May game at Camden Yards.

Arriving well before game time, I reached the elegant ballpark by water taxi and modest walk, a nice way to avoid the tangle of traffic and parking. There was time to watch fans trickle in, and placidly await my buddy, Gwinn.

In the pre-game peace, while hoping the patchwork O's would whip the hated Yanks, I regarded the sparkling grass outfield, stark white foul lines, and manicured infield. Beautiful. Camden Yards is truly a gem (thank you, Janet Marie Smith). And baseball, the summer game of inches, was still to be savored despite Astroturf, vague strike zones, bullpen delays, players with greedy agents, owners with slippery accountants, and other assorted abominations.

Then Gwinn appeared, play began, and all was well ... for precisely half an inning. I had naively anticipated the chance, during the team-switch interval, to catch up on family, health and political news. My friend shared that desire for he had placed his one, fairly good ear closest to my vocal cords.

Forget it. The scoreboard at once exploded with yammer and clamor meant, presumably, to pass as music, and my chum has not yet mastered lip reading.

Don't misunderstand. Ballparks are not made for silence. Cries of vendors, antics of The Bird, sound of bat meeting ball, and thwack of a fastball in the catcher's mitt are a sort of music. So, you tell yourself: lighten up. Assault by ear-splitting, discourse-preventing bedlam is unpleasant, but only that.

After all, in America, cacophony lives. Big time. Stop at a red light; the boom box in the van next to you blares. Turn on the electric telly; strident din and canned laughter abound. But lights turn green, TVs can be muted. Here, however, one is hostage and a single, unforgivable aspect of the lunacy dictated my tortured decision.

Suffering can be abided; insults cannot. Those who man the infernal screens are, at times, baseball ignoramuses. Top of the ninth, Yanks breezing, 8-1. Remaining customers eye the exits. And now come the commands: "ROCK THE YARD!" "CRANK IT UP!" "LOUDER, LOUDER!" Hey, stupid, they are batting, not us! And who are you to tell me when to root? I paid good money to be here, have attended games forever, and need no insolent instructions. I'm outta here, never to return.

End of story? Not quite.

The Orioles had their expected dismal start. But now the no-name rookies are overachieving, flirting with .500 ball, well beyond preseason predictions.

And so, a quandary. My life, in this small way, has become complicated.

Milton Bates writes from Canton.