Can we tell more stories?
My mother is one of seven kids who all grew up in Cincinnati. My grampa had season tickets split with several other people through his work, so he would alternate with the seven kids throughout the season when it was his turn to go. Each of them probably went to two or three games, and it was a special thing because it was just one kid and dad which obviously doesn't happen much with seven kids in the family.
In the interest of fairness, the kids went to the games in age order; that way no one could fight over which teams they got to see or anything like that. So it came time for the opening game at Riverfront Stadium, and it happened to be my Uncle Paul's turn to go. Paul is the second youngest in the family, the youngest boy, and probably the biggest baseball fanatic. He was probably 10 or 12 when Riverfront opened. All the other kids were jealous but he promised them a full report.
When he got home, all the kids surrounded him, and he couldn't even speak. Riverfront was not the most attractive of places, but I can imagine how overwhelming it looked to a kid in the early 70s. The other kids started asking him questions, what is it like, what does it look like, how does it feel there, and he just looked at them, wide-eyed, and could only say:
"You feel like a Cheerio."
(big bowl...small person...get it? I love it.)