Friday, April 21, 2006

Opening day (for me, anyway)

I was raised on baseball. You probably can't tell that by looking at me now. I don't know most of the players' names. At this point, I couldn't even tell you which team is on which league. But there was a time when I thought baseball was the secret to a happy life, which was entirely due to my father's incessant mantra: "Baseball is life; all the rest is details." I happened to be born during the '75 World Series (which Boston blew by the way, just in case some of you didn't grow up with dads who reminded you of the fact every year on your birthday) so instead of hearing tales from my mother about how long her labor was, I hear about how she had to have a friend drive her to the hospital because she couldn't tear my dad away from the tele. And many of my treasured childhood memories involve my brother and I grudgingly sitting through yet ANOTHER losing Mariners game (pre-Griffey even, when our star player was the high-top wearing, base stealing Harold Reynolds) - where my dad would periodically cover our eyes and quiz us on the score or the count, just to make sure we were actively paying attention. (For the record, being the neurotic straight A student that I was, I always passed the quizzes with flying colors. My brother? Not so much...)

Anyway, baseball and I go way back. Hearing a crowd sing "Take me out to the ball game" is enough to make me happy any day. I'm not even kidding. So I was thoroughly enjoying myself tonight, thanks to my friend Kelly who treated me to my first M's game of the season.

Enjoying myself, that is, until the couple sitting next to us started making frantic hand gestures in the direction of my beer. My FULL beer which, as it turns out, was serving as swimming pool to the ridiculously long hair of the woman sitting in the seat in front of me. Eeeeeeew.

After alerting the woman to her faux pas, my first thought was "Shouldn't she offer to buy me a new one?" My second, after realizing that the first thought was obviously terribly inaccurate, was "Maybe if I just poor a little off the top, it'll be okay, " though I have NO idea why I thought that would help. My friend later confessed that her first thought was "Thank God it wasn't MY beer!"

Poor abused beer...

Insult was added to injury when, later in the game, Long Hair was kicked out of her seat. Why? Because the rightful owners of the seats had shown up. So I had hair in my beer from a woman who WASN'T EVEN ENTITLED TO SIT THERE. Things like that ALWAYS happen to me. I've got the random Gurney luck. (My apologies to those of you who don't know who Gurney is. Those of you who do will know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. Only someone who invokes such things as fly-by poopings can fully understand my pain.)

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