When my son Sam and I go on our annual baseball trips, we like to explore. Games are usually at night. During the day, we walk. We especially like to explore neighborhoods. Sam is a Boston-based city planner who sees things urban in a unique way. Even if he weren’t my son, I’d enjoy traveling with him.

This year’s trip was to Detroit, with a repeat side jaunt to Wrigley Field in Chicago.

“Do you know what starts the day after we leave Chicago?” I asked.

“No.”

“The Democratic Convention,” I said. “How much longer can you stay after Sunday?”

“I have to work Monday.”

That was a no for Sam, but not for me, so I booked my return flight for Tuesday. I would be “at” the DNC on Monday, the first day.

“Can you get in?” he asked. No way on that. My efforts for the Democratic Party were sincere, but sporadic. The last meeting of my town’s Dems in early July resulted in a complete repudiation of my call for Joe Biden to step aside.

Being right doesn’t always equal status, and I had no status.

No status, no entrance.

“I don’t care. I just want to hang out, and enjoy the vibe.”

Like Tim Walz, I was a public school teacher for decades, and like the VP nominee, also had a state championship. But I didn’t deserve to go inside, because I didn’t work hard enough for the party, so I was OK with hanging outside.

Sam left Sunday night after an incredible weekend of baseball and walking the neighborhoods of Detroit and Chicago. We’ve been doing baseball trips and neighborhood walks since he was 10. You talk about different things with your son when he’s 32 than you do when he’s 10, but it’s just as special. Probably more.

I stayed behind in Chicago, hoping there would be a spillover of people at the DNC like me. I thought it would be fun to watch the speeches in a blue-friendly bar near the convention, high-fiving fellow patrons while downing local lager.

Monday came and I donned my jeans, boots, and a beat up Democratic T-shirt. My plan was to get off the train a few stops early to walk. I’d wanted to see if the crowds and intensity would increase as I got closer to the convention, but I was befriended on the ride by a few college kids, a gay couple with Harris T-shirts, and a college counselor. Like me, they were all fired up. So I missed the early stop because we were talking and taking selfies. No problem. This was fun.

Upon arrival, I was greeted with a “Free Palestine” protest. I waded in without participating. It was loud but peaceful, and was the only protest I saw. Law enforcement was everywhere, but no confrontations, thankfully. The police were congregating with each other, sitting on a short fence or walking around like me. I didn’t overhear any cops’ conversations about politics or violence, just snippets about overtime sheets.

I got as close to the convention as I would get. The line to get in snaked around several city blocks. Not a surprise. But it didn’t look like a collection of Democrats. It looked like a fancy wedding procession. No T-shirts here. Skinny suits, pumps and pearls, lots of wrist bands and lanyards, and a definite air of “I earned this. I’m special.” Hey, they worked for up to four years, and they did earn this, so why not enjoy?

But these were Democrats, and it felt more like Swarthmore than State U. Pinot Grigio, not Budweiser. Not that the cause was wrong. The cause is right. But the outside vibe was off.

Is this why MAGA hates us?

In early summer, when Biden was adamant about staying in the race, many of the party faithful quietly nodded in compliance.

Was it because they didn’t want to risk their status, and their invite to the next convention in 2028?

More questions than answers, so I walked. Except for those headed for the long line, there was no foot traffic. The bars were empty. The protesters had gone home. Everyone else was headed into the main event.

All players, no cheerleaders.

Time to leave.

The train station was right there, but I chose to walk to another one much farther away.

Sam wasn’t with me, but there was still daylight, and another neighborhood to explore.

Paul Taylor was a teacher and coach for 35 years at Frontier Regional School and West Springfield High School. He lives in West Springfield.