Take me out

Value Games Are the Best Way to Watch the Mariners

Dirt cheap is the only way to baseball.

By Allison Williams July 25, 2022

Win or lose, playoffs or no, there are two things one can count on from the Seattle Mariners. One, don't bet on the hydroplane with the early lead during the seventh-inning stretch race. Two, certain games will represent the cheapest night out in Seattle. 

The Value Game distinction appears on 28 of the Mariners' 81 home games—easy to miss until the online ticket checkout. There, the buyer is presented with two prices for many tickets. Would you like to pay $15 for that bleacher seat, or $10? On the Terrace Level, at a mere 40 or so rows up from the batter, $60 or $30? Two prices, same seat. (Hot tip: Pick the cheaper one.)

Tech publication The Hustle did the math on classic American outings and found that adjusted for inflation, it cost about $102 to take a family of four to the ballpark—tickets, beer, hot dogs, parking—in 1960, but the same experience runs over $200 today. Parking alone, they calculate, has skyrocketed up 6,616 percent since the days of Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle, compared to the cumulative inflation rate of 888 percent. While Seattle doesn't boast the worst baseball prices in the nation (cheapest beer at the Mets stadium is $12, seems almost cruel), it's hardly an outlier.

Hence the joys of the stadium's new value menu, the second step for an alarmingly cheap Mariners game. T-Mobile Park dining may include a Din Tai Fung and acai bowls, but the more generic Rolling Roof snack stands rock a $3 Value Menu: hot dogs, peanuts, sodas, a modest pile of nachos. There are even $5 beers, though scouting out the 12-ounce cans in a sea of giant $13 pours can take a half-inning or two.

Thanks to the light rail, the entire Mariners experience, door to door, can ring up under $30 per person. Sure, the value ticket nights are mostly weeknight games, and mostly not on the promotional days with free T-shirts or bobbleheads. The value hot dogs can hardly compare to a meal of toasted grasshoppers from Edgar's Cantina. The field will not be close.

But a seat on the bleachers above a pile of peanut shells—or lit by the glow of cheap nacho cheese—is shorthand for classic Americana. And when in the river of fans marching from the light rail station to the outfield stadium entrance, a throng of Ichiro jerseys shuffling past the mural of Ken Griffey Jr., it doesn't feel terribly important if the Mariners win or lose. And that's probably a good thing.

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