The folks in front of us are Southern and could have stepped right out of a Marlboro ad; they heckle like pros, and poor Anaheim outfielder Tim Salmon is in just the right spot to hear them talk about his mama. The guys on either side of me decide to join in. “Hey, Salmon, your mom called!” they bellow in unison. “She said you suck!”

Do I know these guys? By day, mild-mannered and polite. By baseball game, you’d hardly know ’em. But their outburst prompts a precious episode: a love-hate triangle between the Marlboro Mob, a lone Angels fan—and the Boy Scouts. It’s Jamboree time, and the troops are out in force, seas of brown in orange stands. The Marlboro Mob moves from chanting Oriole and Angel numbers to chanting troop numbers.

The troops are slow to catch on, but the Angels fan, enraged by Salmon-heckling, strips down to his boxers, which sport Angel embroidery and, bizarrely enough, the name “Tigger.” I don’t get it. He points to his ass as though it proves something, prompting the gentleman to my right to yell: “Hey, nice Winnie-the-Pooh underwear! Did your mom buy that for you?”

The Boy Scouts look confused. Perhaps they are more interested in the electric bottle opener. The Orioles lose after a late rally. The people-watching is as good as the ballgame tonight. Does this make me some kind of voyeur?

• • •

D.C. is a great place to watch people. The ride home from the baseball game is perhaps the most interesting. We’re in a vanful of college-age kids, most of whom don’t know each other or are only recent acquaintances.