I took in a professional baseball game last night. It was Faith and Family Night, which meant that we were favored with a creditable version of the American national anthem and a rousing rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" by gospel choirs. (Aside: if I ran the universe, the American national anthem would not be permitted to be sung by anything smaller than a quartet, and the seventh-inning stretch would always be solemnized by "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" -- not by "God Bless America" or anything else. Potential minions, take note.) Then the visiting team opened up a three-run lead in the first and it was all downhill from there.
And it rained.
Not apocalyptic rain, with hail and thunder, but a gentle, persistent, chilly drizzle. There's something very "Casey At the Bat" about sitting in the cheap seats swathed in a plastic poncho and watching your team lose in that kind of rain. People started leaving in the fifth, which I couldn't quite fathom: even the cheap seats are cheap only by comparison to the leather-chrome-and-champagne luxury boxes, and my team has demonstrated a penchant for improbable late-inning comebacks over the season thus far. They managed to load the bases in the ninth, but the opposing manager wisely switched pitchers and that was the end of that. Ah, well. We'll get 'em next time.
And it rained.
Not apocalyptic rain, with hail and thunder, but a gentle, persistent, chilly drizzle. There's something very "Casey At the Bat" about sitting in the cheap seats swathed in a plastic poncho and watching your team lose in that kind of rain. People started leaving in the fifth, which I couldn't quite fathom: even the cheap seats are cheap only by comparison to the leather-chrome-and-champagne luxury boxes, and my team has demonstrated a penchant for improbable late-inning comebacks over the season thus far. They managed to load the bases in the ninth, but the opposing manager wisely switched pitchers and that was the end of that. Ah, well. We'll get 'em next time.