Alright so last week I hauled my tired butt to that giant Baseball Convention downtown. Place was nuts from the minute I got off the train. Felt like half the city decided to show up at once. Shoulda known.
The Getting There Part
Lesson learned number one: show up stupid early. Like, stupid early. I rolled up thinking 30 minutes before opening was smart. Wrong. Line was already wrapped around the block twice. Felt like I was waiting for the hottest ride at Disneyland. Concrete floors suck after an hour, trust me. My ankles were screaming. Next time? I’m camping out the night before. Okay, maybe not camping. But def two hours early. Minimum.
Navigating the Human Wave
Finally got inside and boom. People. Everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder, all shuffling around like zombies sniffing for baseball swag. Hard to see anything except the back of someone’s jersey. Felt packed tighter than a rookie shortstop’s glove.
Tip two: Wear stupid comfy shoes. My worn-in sneakers were my MVPs. Saw some poor soul wobbling in new boots, looked miserable. Also? Water bottle clipped to my backpack? Genius. Didn’t have to fight the hydration station mobs.
Actually Trying to See Stuff
Wanted to hit all the big panels and autograph signings. Yeah, right. Schedule looked awesome online. Reality check? Missed half of ’em.
So, point three: Pick ONE must-do thing per day. Maybe two. Don’t be greedy. I scrambled trying to get from a Q&A with an old pitcher to a bat-making demo clear across the hall. Got sweaty, frustrated, and missed both. Sucked. Focused on just that Willie Hernandez signing the next day. Staked out the spot early, got it done. Felt like winning the dang pennant.
Food? Ha.
By lunchtime? Hangry. Like, monster-level grumpy. Convention center pretzels cost more than my mortgage payment. Hot dog line? Forget it.
Tip four slam dunk: Pack. Your. Own. Snacks. Seriously. Stuffed my backpack: trail mix bars, fruit strips, jerky sticks (those saved me), even a PB&J sandwich that got a bit squished. Didn’t care. Ate it near some fake turf while watching people pay $12 for soggy fries. Pure satisfaction.
Last Man Standing
Day one? Wore myself out trying to do it all. Left dragging my feet, ears buzzing from all the noise. My head felt stuffed with cotton.
Final tip number five: Escape hatch scheduled. Yeah, sounds wimpy. Felt essential. Found a quiet-ish stairwell midday Day 2. Sat my butt down for 15 minutes. Phone off. Deep breaths. No baseball chatter. Just… quiet. Made the whole afternoon feel possible. And leaving before the absolute final rush? Glorious. Walked past the exhausted zombie hordes shuffling towards the exits. Felt smug.
Conventions are awesome chaos. Pure baseball overdose. But man, you gotta work smart or they’ll eat you alive. Pack snacks, wear the right kicks, aim for one big win, hide when needed, and get the heck out early. Live to convention another day.