My wife and I just attended another three-day, outdoor music festival put on by our favorite Philadelphia radio station. It's a fun event and we have enjoyed enjoyed these festivals year after year. The two of us are veterans of many concerts — both indoor and outdoor. Having been to so many, there are certain things we expect to see at concerts. Of course, you'll see people dancing and singing along with the band — even if they don't don't all of the lyrics to a particular song... or even if they don't know the songs at all. More recently, you'll spot folks taking video of the performance — a video that they will never ever watch... kind of like taking video of fireworks. Every so often, a beach ball will appear out of nowhere and will get batted around the crowd. It's a fun bonus as people become momentarily distracted from the music as they track the path and trajectory of the colorful inflated orb, hoping it'll make it way to their area where they can thwack it back into the crowd. It feels as though you are part of the show.
On Saturday afternoon, with the grassy amphitheater of Camden's Wiggins Park packed with folks around our own age, I fished one of the beach ball out of our tote bag and puffed on the valve until it was fully inflated. The air was filled with the indie rock sounds of S.G. Goodman as I stood up and send that ball sailing over the crowd with one blow of my fisted right hand. It soared high... then sunk.... hitting the ground between a knot of folks swaying politely in folding camp chairs. And there it stayed. I stared in astonishment. "Don't these people know what to do with a beach ball at a concert?," I thought. No one reached for the ball. One man craned his neck, glancing around briefly, trying to locate the source of the ball, but soon he returned his full attention to the stage. The ball rested on the grass.... untouched.
Disappointed but unfettered, I grabbed a second ball, inflated it, and launched it into the crowd. This one sailed in a different direction, but landed in a grassy section between two blankets where small groups of concert-goers had set up weekend camp. And there it sat. I turned to Mrs. Pincus, shrugged my shoulders and asked, "Hasn't anyone every hit a beach ball at a concert?" My peer group let me down.
On Sunday morning, we set ourselves up in approximately the same spot as the day before. Actually, we spread our blanket in the same place every year. As people began to file in to the outdoor venue, Mrs. P noticed a young couple with a little girl all decked out on a glittery red and gold skirt. They set their chairs out fifteen-or-so feet in front of us. Mrs. P quickly grabbed a glittery beach ball from our bag and hastily blew it up. Then she walked down to the couple and the little girl. I couldn't hear what she was saying but her gestures told me she was praising the little girl's costume. My wife — the Child Whisperer, who captivates and enchants children wherever she goes — offered the glittery ball to the little girl as the perfect accessory. The parents were smiling and the girl — already bouncing the ball in her hands — was happy.
Later in the day, another couple pulling a wagon full of stuff parked just a few feet in front of us. This couple had two children — a little boy toting a large container of plastic dinosaurs (just in case Chicago's Ratboys didn't live up to the hype) and a little girl carrying a spiral bound activity book (on the off chance that Rebirth Brass Band didn't hold her interest). As the family settled in to their newly- claimed area, Mrs. Pincus inflated another beach ball. By the time Mrs. P had puffed the final, filling breath into the ball, the family had disappeared. They had apparently wandered off to see what else besides music the festival had to offer. Nevertheless, Mrs. P left the beach ball on one of their chairs and returned of our little space. When the family reappeared, the boy just started bouncing the ball without the least bit of curiosity regarding where it came from or how it landed on his chair.
As the afternoon progressed, we saw the boy come across the glittery beach ball Mrs. P had giver to the girl in the sparkly skirt. She wasn't around, so the boy grabbed the ball and brought it back to his family's camp. Here, he saw the identical ball already beside his little chair. Realizing that he grabbed someone else's ball, he turned and just batted it back in the general direction of where he picked it up... not expressing any concern as to if it landed on the correct blanket.
It became apparent that this boy was not going to share his newly-acquired ball with his sister. Rather than witnessing a sibling confrontation, I inflated yet another beach ball and brought it over to the family's area while they had once again wandered off. When they returned, Mom dutifully removed the second ball from the chair and placed it in the wagon. Now, each child had their own ball — ones that magically materialized from out of nowhere.
By the time Little Feat, the final act of the weekend, took the stage, the wagon family were packing up to leave. Dad gathered up the chairs. Mom loaded up the wagon. And the two kids held on to those mysterious beach balls as though they had brought them along themselves.
I am never bringing beach balls to this festival again. People don't understand them.
