Scratch that. I’ve been reviewing things my whole life. In many forms, just not necessarily in written format. Most of my reviews have been the old fashioned way, by campfire. But it’s a new millennium! And has been for almost 12 years! Probably time to de-commission that saying from my arsenal!
Further, I’ve noticed reviews are on the upswing, and I’m nothing if not receptive to a changing climate. Time I get on the bullet train to Coolsville, because you know what gang? I’ve been stuck at the train station in Septic City for quite some time.
Enough about me, and on to the game.
So, my dad and I work at the same company, and had taken two cars to work that day. Natch, I don’t live with my parents anymore. I’m fucking 35, people. Anyways, we meet at my house after work, to consolidate our driving down to the Cell. We’ve only got one parking pass, and with the BP Cup up for grabs, you know that place will be sold out. Parking at a premium.
My wife greeted us upon return from work, and had made me some Cornell Chicken to sup on. I need a base before going to sporting events, as I have been known to imbibe. Meanwhile, my dad was pacing.
Our baby had not awoken from her nap. Pee-paw was pissed. As a newly minted Pee-paw, he was smitten. For the man who had everything, a granddaughter was not one of those things. Now he had one. He wanted to play with his granddaughter. She was not complying. The pacing continued.
I polished off my chicken, rice and beans and was ready for the night alcohol consumption. I decided to try the new bottle of Bourbon I’d bought. I wanted to be more adult. Miller Lite and RedBull Vodkas were not the drink of adults. No matter the allure of a Dos Equis, my alcohol canvas was drab. I took a quick swig. It did not go well. I’m still waiting to become a man. And anyone who would like a bottle of 12 year old bourbon, let me know.
Eventually the baby awoke, the pacing stopped, and after a brief session of a tortoise playing with a lamb, we were off.
We were to meet my uncle at 630 prior to the game, but the baby had made us late! After a few phone calls, everyone agreed family was more important then promptness, and our late arrival was forgiven.
Ashland to 31st, to Wallace to a bunch of other streets, and we were in the parking lot. The parking attendant was particularly ornery. Many of the cars followed not the directions of the attendant but called their own shots, and parked willy-nilly.
One particular car was garnering the wrath of the attendant until a buxom young lady jumped out. All was forgiven. It was an honest mistake he said. The letch in me respected what he had done. He let his judgment be clouded by boobies. I respect that.
Upon meeting a brief family reunion of sorts, tickets were taken, and in we went.
The game was not sold out. The first time ever.
Kelsey Grammer threw out the first pitch. The theme from Cheers was played. The theme from Back to You was not played. Nor was the theme from the Housewives of Orange county.
Baseball was played.
In the 5th inning the skies ominously looked upon us. My friend and I decided to take cover in the bullpen bar, before hell broke loose. My uncle aka my ride, did not. Hell broke lose, and I was stuck drinking beers in the interim. My ride left, leaving me to take the train home.
After a 100 minute rain delay, it was too late to stay. I had to wake early the next day, and did not want to deal with a full train. I’m fucking 35, people. So I bid adieu to the Cell and Redlined to the Blueline.
Baseball Continued.
Popping out of the division street exit, I walked home. But not before I popped into a bar to take a whiz. The Miller Lite hath cometh to fruitionith.
Feeling like I shouldn’t piss and ditch, I ordered a beer. A PBR Draft. The cost? A BUCK FIFTY. Again, it was A BUCK FIFTY. This could be my new place. Empty. Cheap. Just like me.
How could this place have slipped under my nose? And so close to my house? Mydearlord. I looked around to take in the scene. No one spoke English. A large Pool Table dominated what could have been the world’s most awkward dance floor. The woman next to me asked the bartender if she could smoke inside. The bartender said sure and lit up herself. I think that woman might’ve been a prostitute. I can’t decide.
I asked the bartender to turn the game on, as, I probably should see the game all the way through. Bitter end and all, you know. She said it had been cancelled. I rebuked that thought and told her I’d just arrived from the game and the BP Cup was back on!
She turned the channel from Law and Order, and, it was, back on.
Only the 8th. I took off, planning on catching the last inning at home.
My wife had been trying to furiously catch up on madmen, and she had an episode in the blueray box. “Too far in to change it”. With the baby in the bedroom, I was shit out of tvs.
So I fired up the gamecast on cbssports.com and watched dots and names run around on a refurbished Dell until the game was over. 4 -3 Sox winner. Sweet.
Baseball had Ended.
Shit. Peggy is a department head now on Madmen? I’ve missed a bunch of episodes. Too many.
Then I went to bed.
It’s been that kind of season for the Sox, Cubs, and baseball in general. Sort of unfocused and all over the place.
Cornell Chicken: A
Sox: C
Cubs: C
Baseball: C +
PBR: B
$1.50 PBR: A
Rain: D +
Boobie Lady: B
Good Whiskey: D
Forgiveness: A –
-Pete Fitz
That photo was my profile picture for months after the incident. The brutality of Northsiders against Southsiders in microcosm. Think about THAT for a minute.
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