Hits, No Runs

Every now and then I get sporty.

For the second time in just over a month, I was at the Diamond to see a Squirrels game.

Last time I got rained out, but tonight the weather held.

A friend was in a sporting mood and invited me to share the nosebleed seats for an evening of entertainment.

I was expecting it to be a dry night since I don't drink beer, the official beverage of baseball, but we found a vendor selling James River Cellars wine and I much preferred a cup of Vidal Blanc over anything else to be had.

Once up the stairs and in the cheap seats, we settled in to see what the game could deliver, finding a lovely breeze at our new altitude.

It wasn't long before a ball went soaring into the stands and hit a guy sitting nearby squarely in the chest.

By that time, I'd already expressed concern that given my pathetically slow reflexes, if a ball came my way, I'd be powerless to do anything but take the direct hit.

Being sporty is hard.

Since it had been years since I'd been to a game, I was unprepared for all the hoopla that happens between innings.

Musical chairs, t-shirts shot out of guns, dressing contests, pigs in wheelbarrows set to the tune of John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," the wacky shenanigans didn't let up.

You didn't even have to like baseball to have a good time.

It didn't hurt that the roving vendors accommodate the crowd's every wish, which for me meant water and peanuts (Virginia Diner, mind you) and the occasional wisecrack to go with my wine.

My slow reflexes failed me again when a Squirrels water bottle landed practically at my feet, but the little boy who scrambled up to collect it no doubt deserved it more than me.

Sitting up so high afforded a stellar view of the city skyline and spectacular blue and pink sky as the sun moved lower in it.

I decided my favorite player was #23, not just because 23 is my favorite number, but because every time he came up to bat, the music played was Frank Sinatra.

We watched as the Squirrels surged ahead 5-0 and prevented the Baysox from scoring again and again.

When we finally left, it was only because the Squirrels had the game firmly in hand and we were hungry.

We ended up at Gus' where the tables and bar were full of people in team shirts (all teams sponsored by Gus'), many with eyes glued to the hockey finals.

It was easy to do given that there was a TV at every booth (don't get me started), not to mention all the screens on the walls and over the bar.

Given Gus' Greek roots, the Greek house wine seemed the logical choice and our harried server agreed.

Keeping to the theme, I had a lamb burger with tzatziki and feta and a side of onion rings while the baseball fan had Gus' spaghetti with everything but the kitchen sink.

Despite being no fan of sports, the game capturing everyone's attention was for the championship  so I ended up paying far more attention than I might have.

At the every least, we cheered the fact that both hockey teams at least came from ice-prone areas.

Friend had been hoping Boston would win and send the series into another game, but alas (I guess), Chicago wanted it badly enough to win in Boston and end it all right in front of us.

I was far more into my lamb burger than the game but once things got tense, it was impossible not to watch the last two minutes until Chicago clinched it.

Driving home under the remnants of the super moon centered over Broad Street, I had to admit that for a night centered on sports, it had been an especially enjoyable one.

Where is Karen and what have you done with her?