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nebroadweOn Wednesday afternoon I attended another baseball game at the local major league park. The home team lost again. I can't really complain, because prior to that they'd been on an enormous winning streak and I knew it would snap at some point ... but did it have to snap while I was there? Sigh. There isn't much to pick between watching your team lose in the rain and watching your team lose in the bright sunshine. Between the two, however, I prefer the rain. It seems more fitting, somehow -- and you don't have to endure painful half-inning after painful half-inning while simmering in your own sweat, breathing ever more shallowly as the entire sold-out crowd grows whiffier and whiffier.
In addition, a remarkable number of people in my section were utterly unready for the effect of solar radiation on bare skin. As one guy put it, "I'm gonna do four hours of yard work in the sun, first thing I do is slather on the sunblock. I'm gonna sit four hours in the sun at a ball game, and do I even think about it?" Redneck is not a common look in my neck (ha!) of the woods, but I saw plenty of 'em at the ball park. Also red knees, red elbows, and in the case of one poor teenage girl, red thighs -- she was so thoroughly cooked I winced every time she moved. Eep. Everything shows up in brighter colors at the ballpark, including the injuries.
At least I had another good seat, fortunately placed between two families with children, which kept the crazy away. (There's always crazy at ball games. Furious women screaming, "[Expletive redacted], man, would it kill you to take a pitch once in a while!" while slamming soda cans about and buzzed louts taunting fans of the opposing team by jeering about a recently-suffered natural disaster in their home town are the least of it.) The gentleman on my right was introducing his daughter to baseball, explaining what the various players do and what a batting average is -- and, as it happened, why the lady next to him (me) kept writing things down on a piece of paper. "She's keeping a box score," he said. "She notes down what everybody does and then she can tell you what happened in the whole game."
"Theoretically," I piped up. "I'm not very good at it."
"Hey, I'm not doing one at all!" he responded, and we grinned at each other and his daughter. It would have been a lot better box score if I hadn't kept smearing sweat and sunblock on it. And if my team had won. No point in making a set of notes that merely rubs in the oh-fers.
I have another couple of tickets and am hoping that my team at least goes .500 during my appearances at the park -- otherwise I don't think my family will allow me to attend any more games. :-) The last thing I want to be is responsible for ruining my team's playoff chances, which look good so far ...
In addition, a remarkable number of people in my section were utterly unready for the effect of solar radiation on bare skin. As one guy put it, "I'm gonna do four hours of yard work in the sun, first thing I do is slather on the sunblock. I'm gonna sit four hours in the sun at a ball game, and do I even think about it?" Redneck is not a common look in my neck (ha!) of the woods, but I saw plenty of 'em at the ball park. Also red knees, red elbows, and in the case of one poor teenage girl, red thighs -- she was so thoroughly cooked I winced every time she moved. Eep. Everything shows up in brighter colors at the ballpark, including the injuries.
At least I had another good seat, fortunately placed between two families with children, which kept the crazy away. (There's always crazy at ball games. Furious women screaming, "[Expletive redacted], man, would it kill you to take a pitch once in a while!" while slamming soda cans about and buzzed louts taunting fans of the opposing team by jeering about a recently-suffered natural disaster in their home town are the least of it.) The gentleman on my right was introducing his daughter to baseball, explaining what the various players do and what a batting average is -- and, as it happened, why the lady next to him (me) kept writing things down on a piece of paper. "She's keeping a box score," he said. "She notes down what everybody does and then she can tell you what happened in the whole game."
"Theoretically," I piped up. "I'm not very good at it."
"Hey, I'm not doing one at all!" he responded, and we grinned at each other and his daughter. It would have been a lot better box score if I hadn't kept smearing sweat and sunblock on it. And if my team had won. No point in making a set of notes that merely rubs in the oh-fers.
I have another couple of tickets and am hoping that my team at least goes .500 during my appearances at the park -- otherwise I don't think my family will allow me to attend any more games. :-) The last thing I want to be is responsible for ruining my team's playoff chances, which look good so far ...