Buy me Some Peanuts and Crackerjack

Tonight, FFH attended a Triple-A baseball game. That's exactly half a man biting half a dog, in that Mike gets paid to watch such games a few times a week. I, on the other hand, rarely get to the ballpark. In fact, I wasn't planning to get there tonight, either, until I got a surprise phone call at work saying that Mike was in the press box eating chocolate fondue and could I pick him up. It was practical joke night, the butt of said joke was four hours away from winning a bet with his wife that he couldn't forgo chocolate and chicken for six months, and one of the Bee guys decided Mike had to be there and chauffeured him. Mike reports that the chocolate spread was truly inspired.

My trip there was monstrous, as traffic was at a near standstill for ten miles in between Davis and West Sac, and I'd been drowsy when I left Berkeley. As I was driving around slowly looking for Parking Lot A, the asshat in the car behind me (thank you, Laura, for reminding me to use the word "asshat") honked at me--not one of those chirpy staccato honks, either, she really leaned on it. So I turned around in a blind fury and shouted, "Well I'm sooo soorrrrry I stopped at the red liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggggggghhhhhhhhht!"

When I arrived at the stadium, though, I was really glad I'd come. The energy surrounding a baseball game is really something special, akin I think only to the overture at a musical play. Perhaps that helps explain that whole deal with No, No, Nanette. Anyway, I caught the last three innings, including an upset in the top of the ninth. We had some truly incredible seats, thanks to Fridge Magnet Gabe, right behind home plate, close enough to read the radar gun. Mike says we were also close enough to hear the umpire yelling, but I missed it as the ump was drowned out by the yahoos behind us shouting "Have some patience, Danny!" at a swing and a miss, followed by "What the hell are you waiting for, Danny?" after a deceptive curveball, etc. There was also a contingent of adolescent boys attempting to disrupt the opponents' concentrations by shouting "swing" at the expected moment. They were successful twice, but after the batter hit a line drive through the hole between second and third the adolescents canned it. The mantle was taken up again by a crowd of 8-year-old-ish admirers who imitated their tactic, but were totally unable to master the timing. It was highly comical.

Now, the Rivercats stadium bouncers are all elderly ladies in straw hats. But the franchise seems to have gone to some effort to recruit only really hot old ladies. It's like a Miss Yolo County reunion or something. Anyway, one of the hot old ladies came over to us shortly after we took our seats. "I need to see your tickets, please," she asked, flashing the smile that no doubt launched a million GI dreams. Mike fished in his pocket and pulled them out, at which Miss Yolo County '41 seemed genuinely taken aback, even embarrassed. "Wow," she said, openly staring at the tickets, "That doesn't happen very often." Only after she had walked away was Mike heard muttering "Awww yeeeah, in your face, I own these seats."

I think I'd like to wear a Bocachica jersey, primarily for the multilingual punning.