The Pittsburg Pirates were on a 10-game losing streak. My family sat between home plate and first base at a Pirates verses the Padres Major League Baseball game. A little girl sat behind me screaming, “Go Bucks!” for the Buckaneers.

We cheered on the Pirates just for the fun of it, and they looked good. Nobody had scored by the third inning and there was a possibility that the Pirates would break their losing streak.

Then the fourth inning hit. The Padres scored.

One points. Two points. Three points. Four points. Five points.

Finally, the inning was over.

For anyone who doesn’t know much about baseball, the Padres are a pretty horrible team. If it was possible, the Pirates were playing worse.

The third baseman dropped the ball. The batters swung at everything. The outfielders couldn’t catch simple pop flies. It was a horrible baseball game.

The home crowd booed their own team, the Pirates. The only person who seemed to still be excited about the game was the little girl behind me, yelling with the same enthusiasm as before. Her dad was a part of the booing squad.

Then the seventh inning hit. The Padres hit a grand slam. It was the second time I had ever seen a grand slam, the first being at a Detroit Tigers’ game. I can remember how alive the crowd felt, the extremely drunk guy who was too close to the rail (there’s always a drunk guy at baseball games), and everyone standing for the last three innings.

This crowd was roadkill. Completely dead. They didn’t bother to boo. It was pointless. It struck me as odd though that the crowd was staying. It struck me odd that my family was staying. It even seemed like more people were showing up. There was no point sticking around for a game that was as horrible as this.

It was just when we were getting up to leave that we heard the announcer say,

“…and stay around for the post game fireworks with hit band Train!”

We quickly sat back down and endured the rest of the game. There was no way we were going to miss a free Train performance.

It seemed like ages until the game was over, though it was really only three innings. People began filling in empty seats around us.

The game was over. A countdown clock on the scoreboard began. Ten minutes until I got to see Train. Live. My thoughts were on repeat.

“Train is going to perform. I can’t believe this. Train is going to perform. Train. Grammy-award winning Train is going to perform here. Right here. Train…”

A crew was setting up a stage in the middle of the field. They were putting up huge speakers. I took a picture of the field with my phone. You can’t make out anything in it, we were too far away.

The lights turned out in the stadium. The crowd cheered for the first time. The announcer was talking, but I wasn’t paying attention to him. I got my camera ready again. I was going to take a picture of them. I saw others taking out their cameras to do the same thing.

A sound echoed throughout the field.
Chug.
Chug.
Chug.
Chug.
Chug.
Chug.
Choochoo!
Then a spotlight followed the band onto the stage.
The crowd was like a firework. Silent.
Then BOOM!
Then CHEERS!

They began singing, and I could hear myself singing along. I could feel my awe, and as I swept in my surroundings of people doing the same thing as myself, I could see the glitter of flashes from cameras going off around the stadium. This was clearly the best part of the game.

I stood for the entire concert, almost mindless. I was in utter awe. The chance of seeing Train perform without prior notice was like the chance of getting hit by lightning–zero to none.

But it was still happening.

They were playing “Calling All You Angels” and then “Hey Soul Sister,” and I was singing along like I would with the radio. This was different, though. This was real.

The way it ended though, it might as well have been the radio. All it was was music playing, all it was was the band live. The radio was them, maybe a little tuned, but it was the same thing. For some reason, seeing them live should have felt different. It didn’t.

Then before I knew it, the hour-long performance was over. Done.

I replayed it over and over to myself, but it was only an hour.

Without a doubt, it was one of the worst baseball games I had ever been to, but in my mind, it will always be remembered as one of the best.