There’s a new sensation sweeping the bleachers of Major League Baseball stadiums. It’s called Tarps Off and involves groups of (mostly) male fans taking off their shirts, en masse, and waving them above their heads, in a collective celebration of…who knows what.
It looks stupid and fun. It also looks extremely low-tech. My fascination is why now, all of a sudden, in 2026? Something this basic could have become popular fifty years ago. There’s nothing novel about dudes going shirtless at baseball games and cheering.
According to the definitive history on mlb.com, Tarps Off had its Major League Baseball debut on May 15th in St. Louis, when an enthusiastic group of knuckleheads–God bless them–from the Stephen A. Austin club baseball team started waving their shirts in the air and whooping it up. And it spread from there.
My wife and I attended a San Francisco Giants game in mid-June and witnessed the phenomena in its full pasty, unchiseled glory. It took place mainly in the center field bleachers–of course–but there were small, scattered pockets of fans taking part elsewhere in the stands. Tarps Off had landed in our home stadium.
Who knows how long this frivolity is going to last? I need to get in on it now, while it’s still a thing. Fortunately, my wife and I had tickets to an upcoming game two weeks later, even better, a day game. I asked if she was okay with me going Tarps Off. She was, under some conditions, or should I say, suggestions, which were perfectly reasonable, and which I followed.
For context, no one wants to see me in public with my shirt off. I get that, and for the most part, I keep my shirt on, as a public service. However, on the rare occasions that I go to the beach or go swimming, I take it off.
My body is nothing to look at, on the contrary, it’s something to look away from. I have a terrible farmer’s tan, a very unimposing chest, and spindly limbs. I have more of a distance runner’s body, which is not a good look.
However…relatively speaking…especially for a man of my age…it could be a lot worse. Among American men, the bar is low, or more accurately, round and flabby.
In preparation for the upcoming game and exhibitionist celebration, I got in a few additional runs, did crunches and upper body exercises, and visited a professional service provider for some strategic hair removal.
My game day strategy was as follows: when the time is right and the tarps start coming off, head out to the bleacher section and find an available spot, being careful to steer clear of toned twenty-year-olds, gym rats, and fitness bros. Rather, seek out and slide in amongst the Dad bods, and look decent by comparison.
On game day, the conditions at the ballpark were ideal: sunny, 65°, and a good fan turnout for a game against the A’s, the Giants’ former cross-bay rival.
As I watched the game, I also kept my eye on the bleachers, eagerly awaiting the right time. I put sunscreen on my chest, my wife applied it to my back. I was ready. I waited. And waited. Opportune times came and went. When was it going to start? When were the tarps coming off?
It never started. Tarps never came off. How disappointing, but for me, also so typical: overplanning and overpreparing for things, including things that don’t happen.
At least I had the right attitude and was looking forward to getting out of my comfort zone and doing something fun and uncharacteristic of myself.
At the end of the game, my wife tried to console me with, “Next time.” I’m not trying to wait for next time, there is no guarantee of a next time. I’m trying to be about this time, about now. In addition, I don’t want to do any more unnecessary vanity crunches. I hate crunches.
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