Anyway, the last time I had been to a baseball game was at Coors field to see the Rockies when I still lived in Colorado (which was a hell of a long time ago, at this point). My memories were fond, vague and laced with the oh-so-sweet hunger for big, thick hotdogs and sticky crackerjacks. Last night, I gorged myself, both visually and orally (don't be dirty, that's not what I mean). I ate hotdogs, nachos, crackerjacks, ice cream (Dippin' Dots, actually, which aren't really ice cream, despite advertisements) and some fresh fruit for good measure. I was contemplating a funnel cake, but the top button on my jeans decided against it.
We lost, but not miserably (6-4). And besides, it's not about winning or losing; it's about the salty smell of peanuts and beer, the familiar stick of your sandals on the concrete, the amusing loud guy in front of you rooting for the other team. It's about getting off your ass and plopping it down in some green, plastic seats (which are, for some reason, angled up at an audacious angle).
The one nauseating thing I noticed: There are now commercials in the middle of a friggin' baseball game. What the hell?
Moral of the story: Don't wait 10 years to go to a baseball game, or any other kind of game, for that matter. Go today (lest you also be taken aback by disturbing new forms of modern technology).
