I went to a Texas Rangers game last night – courtesy of a friend who has season tickets and couldn’t attend. I caught a lucky break, as the temperature for the day only reached the mid-90s, therefore, it was actually bearable (although still not what I would call pleasant) in our shaded seats.
As it happened, we parked on the opposite side of the ballpark from where those seats were located, so we began our evening with a trek through the throngs of humanity lurching about the stadium in search of sustenance, bathrooms, or a good cell signal. As we waited in line for a beer, I caught a whiff of 5-day old cigarette-sweat, beer, and unfulfilled potential.
Ah, humanity. Thanks for reminding me why I stay home so much.
Once in our seats I was diverted by all the good people-watching around me. The couple in front of me with a little boy who had zero interest in the game at hand, but was totally focused on the game IN his hand – his mother’s iPhone. He was also really good at being belligerent.
Behind me, a woman kept asking her date if there wasn’t some sort of time limit on how long a pitcher could take to throw the ball in the direction of the batter, rather than sending five tosses to first base in an attempt to get the runner out as he took a lead toward second. She refused to believe his answer.
Then there was the guy in the row in front of us to the far left. Rather than trying to squeeze past the very large individuals on HIS row, he decided I looked easier to get past, so climbed up to our row each time he exited. Didn’t matter if I had a lap full of food and drink myself, while they had nothing in their laps except their laps.
The second time he scooted past me resulted in my wearing a bit of the melted cheese I had been inhaling in a very unladylike manner. He’s lucky I didn’t trip him. One should not get between me and melted cheese. (Or whatever that orange glop is they put on nachos at the ballpark.) The window for eating ballpark nachos is a small one. The cheese has to still be hot enough to not reveal that it is really some sort of petroleum by-product, and the chips should still resemble chips and not wilted disks of cardboard. Once the first 3 minutes have passed, the magic spell is broken and you realize what you’re doing to yourself.
During the “kiss cam” portion of the night’s entertainment, a proposal took place. The camera angle was terrible – the Rangers’ mascot was holding up a sign we couldn’t read, because we were looking at the back of it. Before the poor guy on bended knee could get a yes or no, the director must have lost interest because he moved on to what I think was a mother and son, whose expressions revealed utter and complete horror; the same look I would be sporting if they found me sucking the cheese off the front of my shirt.
At the end of the evening, the Rangers had won (barely) and I could sense what felt like cellophane making its way through my veins.