Game 78
It’s down to the wire now. In a game with playoff implications, not a single Seattle baseball fan answers my call for a free trip to the ballpark. Sigh.
After sleeping off last night’s wacky party excesses, I grab the later bus, this time forewarned of the change in Schedule. Perhaps my senses are attuned somewhat by hunger, and the lingering afteraffects of 16 hours in an alergen zone, but everyone on the bus smells as if they haven’t washed for days. I continually check myself, to make sure I’m not contributing to the problem, but it’s the nasty old/young/detergent challenged folks who share my ride.
Sigh. It’s like being back out on the road again. Sundays were the worst, especially when Sunday showed up on Wednesday night. Some folks just don’t get the concept of personal cleanliness. Athough I have a passing fondness for the simplicity of life in the Middle ages, I like my vastly prolonged lifespan, lack of lice, and nearly full head of teeth a lot better.
And soap. I’m all in for soap.
I manage to make a connecting bus, now that time is not an issue. Winding by Joe’s, I ask if he’s got anything left. To my great joy, he does, and while I’m getting my change, he slips an extra dog into my meal. “You get two today, one for the walk in, and one for when you sit down.”
Doing a quick calculation comparing the food I ate last night to the metabolic poisons I consumed, I gladly accept his closing bell offer. That’s a lot of cow, even for me. Baseball season is almost over, and I’m sure looking forward to losing weight again. Perhaps I should engage in some moderate physical activity other than walking the mile from the bus stop to the ballpark, and then back again.
Wait a minute……
It’s the kind of day where I just don’t want to sit by myself. I drop in on Mark and his buddy Jason, and watch the game from the relative comfort of Section 106. Relative, because Mark, Jason and I are all Manly Men, and hilarious elbow jostling ensues. “Damn, my seat got a lot smaller,” Mark proclaims, and there is laughter all around. Mark’s on the bubble for next year’s tickets, so I remind him that row 14 is made for Manly Men. He’s definitely interested in not going to 40 games next year, so I may have another convert. Provided I can work all Winter at a respectable wage, I should have no problem covering the two seats.
After inning 5, Mark makes the call in to Meghan and Linley, once we retire to the Garden of Beer. Ever the romantic, Mark uses the classic line, “Get your but down here and bring me a beer.” Wuv, twoo Wuv.
It’s nice to see the ladies again, and Meghan feels compelled to apologize for not knowing about my return to singleness on Saturday night. No big deal, I tell her. We blame Mark, and everyone is happy.
Well, almost everyone.
Even another fantastic start by Bobby Madritsch isn’t enough to galvanize the M’s offense, which sputters and dies. Hitless on the day are Ichiro, Ibanez, Bocachica, Dan Wilson, and pinch hitter Greg Dobbs. Randy Winn puts on another fine late season hitting display, and even William Paul Bloomquist gets in on the action. But without Papi, the M’s just have no chance after the third inning.