Creme dela Cramer

When he walks by, most people don't think too much about him. He's a part of the game, a piece of the atmosphere. The only time he affects them is when they're hungry or thirsty, or when he's blocking their view. The crowd thinks there is nothing to it--"He's getting paid for watching the game."

And yet the ball park vendor is no different than any other laborer. The hours are different--lasting four quarters, three periods, or nine innings. The days are different, too; West coast swings, southern jaunts, and three-day excursions make the schedule shaky and uneven. But the vendor has an employer and a union as any other occupation.

A ball park vendor has to create a style to survive the competition of a hundred other barkers, for he gets no salary. He works strictly on commission, usually about 16-per-cent of his sales. In most stadiums this minute cut yields about six cents per hotdog, and two and one-half cents per coke.

I didn't understand these details until I started vending two seasons ago. I thought then that ball park selling wasn't much of an occupation. I figured that Phillies fans would be clamoring for my soda, my pockets bulging with change.

After about 30 games I realized I was unsuccessful, striking out about five times more per inning than the Phillies. I spent most of the summer bouncing around the lower deck, coke tray in hand, watching the Phillies drop another close one. In late August, the Phillies and I dropped out of the races in our respective leagues. While the Phillies continued their futile ballplaying, I decided to admit defeat. I handed in the "cold ones" and spent the winter reflecting on my meager earnings.

As soon as the 1973 campaign began, I rushed down to Veteran's Stadium to watch not the Phillies, but the professional vendors. I noticed two types of real hawkers: the 40-year veterans who sell year-round, and the college kids from the Mainline area who work from May to September. I realized I couldn't vie with the aging hustlers. These lower-deck professionals had techniques and aisle space-rights not to be violated by any rookie.

So I decided to go to the lucrative upper-deck trade and challenge the successful students. I went to the upper deck commissary and demanded to sell hotdogs. I hoped to combine the style of Veteran's Stadium fixture Charlie "Hotdog" Frank and the hustle of the nouveau-riche dog-men. Nevertheless, lacking the seniority to sell the high-profit-margin dogs, I settled back to the 35-cent cokes and prayed for an instant heat wave

Unfortunately, my third customer that night cheated me by insisting that the one-dollar bill he gave me was a fin. I surrendered the $4.65 without complaint. Undaunted, I departed the right-field bleachers and headed for the more competitive areas, the expensive first and third baseline seats.

Selling in these crowded sections required a loud call and quick hands. I borrowed the call from traditional hawkers--"Cold Sodee Here!"--but the remaining traits took practice. The multiple orders from eight-member families tested my accuracy. I discovered that finding the big sale and handling it smoothly meant success for the coke-man.

Eventually, I realized that besides quick change-making and drink-passing, a good coke-man should know when to yell; the loud sales pitch disturbs the box-seat spectators but doesn't bother the grandstand fans. A good vendor never climbs steps either, unless four or five definite sales are waiting. Only the newcomer listens to the kids who yell "How much?" when 35 cents is emblazoned all over his hat.

A smart hustler also has the knack for stepping aside to avoid blocking the prospective customer's vision while totally obscuring the thermos-carrying fan's view. And it always pays to know a few averages or who will be pitching tomorrow night. A good baseball conversation usually leads to a sale.

Armed with these new tricks, I rose to soda-selling respectability by the third homestand. I began to watch the scoreboard to learn when to quit so as to avoid the task of downing 15 leftover sodas. By the All-Star break, I had earned the reputation as number-one coke-man in Veteran's Stadium.

My ball park glory came, finally, during the last homestand I could attend, a 16-game August-September series. The Phillies, in an unexpected late-season awakening, were near the top of their division. Philadelphia fans dropped all pre-season Eagles discussions and stampeded to the park. Under these jam-packed conditions, with 90 degree heat, my coke business thrived. I broke two records on consecutive nights, first with a sale of 1200 cokes, then with one sale of 240 cokes to a Lions Club leader who shared his order with 500 parched Cub Scouts.

When I left the ball park on my final September night, I knew that there was more to vending than walking up and down the aisles. And I knew that next year, if I could keep my hard-earned coke prestige, I could skip over that hotdog.