Take Me Out to the Parking Lot
Sure, thunderstorms had ripped through at 2:30, but at 4 it was sunny, still hot, and the pavement was drying. We will Stick To The Plan, dammit.
Got everyone regaled in baseball regalia, from Ryan's sleeveless SWING tee to Erin's onesie with a baseball on the butt. Nationals fans a quatro, heading to the local minor league stadium. To buy Ryan some crackerjacks, after having learned the whole song in less than five days.
We got there fairly early, and had a good parking spot. Two bags on shoulders, stroller out, Erin secured, Ryan wanting up, got water, got cameras, got money.
Do not, however, got game.
Just as we were locking up the car, we heard someone else walking by saying the game had been canceled. What, they can't afford a tarp? We brought a towel to wipe off the seats. Play ball!
But no. We decided to wander down since we were already in wandering mode, and found a little 8 x 11 sheet of paper on the ticket booth explaining the cancellation.
I asked the young gentleman in the window if they didn't think it would be prudent to put a sign somewhere else, say, near the front of the parking lot, to prevent people from unloading their whole families and having to find out down here.
"Well, that's county property, and we're not allowed."
(Of course, they can leave up their signs that say $4 Stadium parking.)
"Can't one of you go up there and instead of collecting $4 (which no one was tonight), tell people the game's off?"
"Well, it's on the website."
"...Were you really beaten that much as a child?"
"Well, I am ugly."
Okay, that last exchange is slightly fantastical, but still.
Decided to go to a local sports bar "and restaurant my ass" I'd ridden by on one of my bike jaunts, since baseball hats didn't exactly scream "Olive Garden." Spent the better part of our time there trying to keep my body between Ryan and the Ultimate Fighting match on the Big Screen TV. Had to wait twenty minutes for out kid's meal hot dog, vegetarian nachos, and a nasty, small, crispy French Dip and five (count 'em!) whole onion rings that were soggy from the au jus that had sloshed over the side. So we went to Dairy Queen afterwards so at least something pleasant could happen this evening, but despite my saying it three times, the guy screwed up my order. Seriously: Welcome to America and all, but good lord, man. Learn your menu at least. If I ever emigrated to Russia and could only find work at a baked potato stand, you would think, among my first words I'd learn, were baked potato. Perhaps chives.
So the pleasantness had to wait for home, when Ryan and I shared a Star-Bellied Sneech story in his bed, lounged around a bit, and parted ways more than amicably; with a blown kiss and everything. Just got out of twenty minutes in 105-degree hot tub water. Got a great home, a great wife, great life. Wet onion rings be damned.
Got everyone regaled in baseball regalia, from Ryan's sleeveless SWING tee to Erin's onesie with a baseball on the butt. Nationals fans a quatro, heading to the local minor league stadium. To buy Ryan some crackerjacks, after having learned the whole song in less than five days.
We got there fairly early, and had a good parking spot. Two bags on shoulders, stroller out, Erin secured, Ryan wanting up, got water, got cameras, got money.
Do not, however, got game.
Just as we were locking up the car, we heard someone else walking by saying the game had been canceled. What, they can't afford a tarp? We brought a towel to wipe off the seats. Play ball!
But no. We decided to wander down since we were already in wandering mode, and found a little 8 x 11 sheet of paper on the ticket booth explaining the cancellation.
I asked the young gentleman in the window if they didn't think it would be prudent to put a sign somewhere else, say, near the front of the parking lot, to prevent people from unloading their whole families and having to find out down here.
"Well, that's county property, and we're not allowed."
(Of course, they can leave up their signs that say $4 Stadium parking.)
"Can't one of you go up there and instead of collecting $4 (which no one was tonight), tell people the game's off?"
"Well, it's on the website."
"...Were you really beaten that much as a child?"
"Well, I am ugly."
Okay, that last exchange is slightly fantastical, but still.
Decided to go to a local sports bar "and restaurant my ass" I'd ridden by on one of my bike jaunts, since baseball hats didn't exactly scream "Olive Garden." Spent the better part of our time there trying to keep my body between Ryan and the Ultimate Fighting match on the Big Screen TV. Had to wait twenty minutes for out kid's meal hot dog, vegetarian nachos, and a nasty, small, crispy French Dip and five (count 'em!) whole onion rings that were soggy from the au jus that had sloshed over the side. So we went to Dairy Queen afterwards so at least something pleasant could happen this evening, but despite my saying it three times, the guy screwed up my order. Seriously: Welcome to America and all, but good lord, man. Learn your menu at least. If I ever emigrated to Russia and could only find work at a baked potato stand, you would think, among my first words I'd learn, were baked potato. Perhaps chives.
So the pleasantness had to wait for home, when Ryan and I shared a Star-Bellied Sneech story in his bed, lounged around a bit, and parted ways more than amicably; with a blown kiss and everything. Just got out of twenty minutes in 105-degree hot tub water. Got a great home, a great wife, great life. Wet onion rings be damned.
posted by Dan at 9:10 PM
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