My First Orioles Game

I have never claimed to like baseball. I have, however, claimed to like my friends. So when they said, “Orioles game,” I said “sure,” knowing full well I could not tell you the rules, the positions, or why everyone suddenly stands up sometimes.

Traffic on the way there was brutal. Baltimore traffic that makes you question every life decision that led you onto that highway. I mentioned, casually, that I was hungry. One of my friends reached into her middle console and handed me a bag of gummy bears. “Take these,” she said.

Somewhere in my childhood, a voice whispered: don’t take candy from strangers. But these were my friends. 

So I ate it. 

It tasted terrible. 

I decided that was punishment enough and didn’t take another.

Camden Yards is massive. Brick walls, steel beams, and the scent of fried food and pretzels drifting through the air. People in bright orange jerseys stream toward the gates like a river. Vendors shout about Crabcake sandwiches, giant soft pretzels, and Bud Light specials. Somewhere a kid is waving a foam finger the size of his head.

We found our seats. The game started (apparently). I cheered when my friends cheered. I booed when they booed. I nodded like I understood. My friend leaned over and started explaining baseball. Something about innings. Something about strikes that aren’t actually strikes. Something about why everyone loses their mind when a man hits a ball and runs in a square. I could not keep a straight face. I was trying so hard to be respectful, but none of it made sense, and the seriousness with which it was explained made it even funnier.

I was starving. We all got nachos. These nachos were unreal. Perfect cheese-to-chip ratio. Warm. Salty. Life-changing. Baltimore, you did not warn me.

Then it hit. A strange feeling. Heavy. Floaty. Wrong. I paused mid-chew. A memory clicked into place: the gummy. I turned slowly and asked, very carefully, “What was in that?”

Silence. Then laughter. Then the words I was not prepared to hear: “Those were edibles.”

I panicked internally while pretending externally that everything was fine. I felt funny. Suspicious of my own hands. The cheering was louder now. The lights felt brighter. Every crack of the bat, every shout from the crowd, every bounce of a ball felt exaggerated in my brain. The mascot, a giant bird in orange, danced like it knew my secret. I clutched my nachos like they were life rafts.

By the end, I had learned something about baseball (sort of), about my friends (definitely), and about myself (maybe a little too much). I left Camden Yards with a newfound appreciation for nachos, a healthy respect for candy warnings, and the realization that sometimes, experiencing a city’s culture means showing up, paying attention, and surviving whatever curveballs come your way.

Baltimore’s culture isn’t just in the stadium, it’s in the fans chanting “O! R! I! O! L! E! S!,” in the smell of peanuts and fried food mingling with the harbor breeze, in the little rituals of seventh-inning stretch songs and high-fives with strangers. It’s chaotic, vibrant, and unforgettable. And now I understand why people love it, even if I might never understand baseball.