Although my previously mentioned softball playing days were from Disaster City, I used to enjoy watching baseball games. The Cubs were my favorite team and when we lived in the Chicago area I’d iron during afternoon baseball games on WGN. My family always looked its neatest during baseball season.
There’s a comment from Jaydized on my earlier post this week telling of her own experience at a major league game…100 teeny steps up, middle seat…top row…buttered popcorn and smelly armpits and how she made the unpardonable mistake of asking how long until halftime.
Her comments reminded me of the time my daughter and son-in-law took me to a game in Arlington, Texas where we had similar seats. I loved the experience and we were lucky to have tickets at all, but when you stand for the National Anthem and are looking DOWN at the American flag, you know you’re in the nosebleed section. Sort of like watching a Monopoly board come to life, the players are so small.
We used to have season tickets for our local AAA baseball games. Season tickets weren’t exactly in great demand, so we were on the front row over the visitors’ dugout. This was back in the days when Chipper Jones and Jim Thome and some others were still in AAA. I adopted them as “my guys” and still watch for them on televised games. Doesn’t matter what team they’re on.
We’d bought two season tickets and an older man we knew had bought the two next to us. He was a bit of a snob and liked being able to give them away; we liked having a regular date out in the warm night air. I usually took a book and read, looking up whenever the noise of the crowd told me something was going on. That gives you an indication of my level of expertise as to the intricacies of the game.
Dearly Beloved was all into the strategy. He explained it to me until my eyes started to glaze over which meant lesson over for the evening. He still does that and expects to have me into baseball on a deeper level by the time I’m 90.
Once DB was out of town and my friend Martha went with me. Martha’s interest in baseball was right up there with her interest in tractor tire treads, but she went just for the fun of getting out. Our older seatmate was there that evening also and for some reason seemed determined to show off his knowledge of the game to her. He was tossing out ERA, RBI, DP, SB, DH…all those terms that sound foreign to someone not into the game. I knew what he was talking about (see previous paragraph about DB!) but I sure don’t memorize stats; I have difficulty with my phone number sometimes.
Martha was being a very good sport but it was obvious that his baseball chatter was getting under her skin. After all, we hadn’t come to a baseball game to talk baseball. Finally she’d had enough and said to me, loudly enough that the guy could overhear, “The player on third base has a serious VPL.”
VPL. The guy sat back stunned. He certainly wasn’t going to ask but had no clue of what VPL meant. He remained quiet the rest of the evening, and we could almost smell the smoke as he put his brain into overdrive, trying to come up with what it might be.
Martha and I sat back and chatted the rest of the game. She was right, though, about the guy on third base.
He had one heck of a Visible Panty Line.