On Sunday, we finally got around to something I've wanted to do all summer: take the kids to a Portland Beavers baseball game. For those of you who don't follow such things, the Beavers are a minor league team at the AAA level, just one step below the major leagues. They play their home games at PGE Park, an old, city-owned stadium which was spruced up and renamed in a financially unwise, overly expensive, but aesthetically pleasing refurbishing a few years back.

It was a day game -- exactly what I had wanted, as for me day baseball is so much better than night baseball. And the weather turned out perfect. Partly cloudy, low- to mid-70s. We snagged a parking spot on the street a few blocks away, stepped right up to the ticket window, and bought four good seats.

There's nothing like a baseball game, especially with the little ones in tow. They didn't pay too close attention to the game, but they enjoyed the scene, and they seemed content to watch me watch the action. "If they throw you a bad one and you don't swing at it, that's a ball," I announced, no doubt annoying everyone else around us. "And after four balls, you get to walk over to that base over there."

"Is that cheating?" asked daughter no. 1.

"No, honey, that's what you're supposed to do. Now if they throw you a good one and you don't swing at it, that's a strike, and you only get three strikes. Like the song says, 'It's one, two, three strikes, you're out.'

"Oooh, he swung at a bad one."

We ate some pretty decent ballpark fare -- the prices were high, but unlike at the Blazer games, it somehow seemed like it was for a good cause. I chowed down on a bratwurst with kraut -- my first in many years, so don't tell Dr. Lou -- and relaxed with the girls while the players went through their paces. We didn't know a single one of their names, but we were together as a family in a nice place on a great day. If we wanted to, we could listen to what the friendly announcer was saying, because the sound system was just loud enough. But mostly we were too busy concentrating on the sights, the smells, and the company. I was grinning from ear to ear.

Now, on the way into the stadium, I had filled out an entry form for a raffle to win a grill. The contest was sponsored by the Oregon Chicken people, and the prize was a Traeger pellet grill. I had seen one of these in action before, under the well-tempered spatula of none other than Master Chef Randy Leonard, of all people, and I would have been willing to let go of my beloved 20-plus-year-old Weber for this kind of upgrade.

Wouldn't you know it? About halfway through the fourth inning, a couple of park personnel came by. "Are you Jack?" They invited me to head down to the seating area behind home plate, just next to the visiting Tucson Sidewinders' dugout, to participate in the final phase of the contest to get the grill.

And so at the next break in the action I said goodbye to the girls and headed down there, where I assumed a position on the bench next to seven other folks who had been weeded out of the crowd of several thousand for a chance at the big prize. We were soon separated into two groups of four, and told to await further instructions.

What a great vantage point. We were actually sitting right at field level, with nothing but a mesh screen separating us from home plate, seemingly 25 feet away. I've watched a fair amount of baseball in my life, but never from such a good seat. From there, it definitely does not look like a video game any more. It's leather and wood and brown dirt and sweat and spit and brute strength and speed.

After a while, some young gals came by and explained how the grill would be won. Between innings there would be two simultaneous games of musical chairs on the field, which would narrow the field down from eight to two. The two survivors would then join the Oregon Chicken mascot on top of the Beavers dugout for a chicken dance contest. The better of the two chicken dancers would take home the grill.

While we spent the next inning or so brooding about this news, one of the other three people in my group recognized me. It was Glenn Robles, a former student of mine and now a well-established trial attorney in town. It was fun catching up. We both said we weren't sure that we really wanted to be in the chicken dance, but I think we were both lying.

From time to time, I would wave up at the wife and kids. I knew what the Mrs. would be thinking. As soon as she saw those musical chairs, she'd know I didn't have a chance. Not quite pushy enough. She, on the other hand, would have been a lock for the dugout roof. If you've ever seen my bride at an outdoor show with general admission seating on a lawn somewhere, you know that she can dash through the admission gate and hustle down to bogart a seat with the best of them. The pressure on me was mounting.