Let's . . . play ball! Or um, just stand around then.
So I saw a baseball game last night. Whooeee, that's the kind of excitement rarely seen outside of re-tiling the bathroom floor. Maybe I'm speaking from the deep dark Canadian place that is suffering from lack of hockey, a primordial unscratched itch from long months of no body-checking, slashing, spitting, punching, head-butting, and high-sticking (and that's just in the STANDS).
Here's my play-by-play analysis of last night's game: They stood around. A LOT. Once in a while someone ran, but it was the divertive equivalent of playing Whack-A-Mole at one mole per minute. Even the cheerleader-dancer people looked bored, and I saw one wander out of formation to chat with some dude in the stands.
Which is not to say the game didn't have its highlights. Our mascot, a person attired in a giant blue jay suit that looked as though it was made by a PTA mom in the eighties, ran into a wall, dislodging his bird head somewhat, tottered back, and walked into the wall again. His chiropractor must LOVE him.
Also we were sitting in the middle of a grim dispute between a group of rabid drunken teenage Blue Jays fans and a group of rabid drunken teenage Oakland A's fans. The outfielders HATED these guys. Some poor sod named Korsay will probably never ever play in Toronto again after the crap our drunks screamed at him; he began noticeably playing more infield after a couple of innings. He kept looking up at our section, a painful look of total harassment on his face, and you just know he was wishing he'd gone into investment banking like his guidance counselor told him to.
I mostly occupied myself with Ryan and a giant pretzel the size of home plate. And daydreamed of running onto the field and tackling the short stop, just for fun. MAN, we need to get hockey back.
Here's my play-by-play analysis of last night's game: They stood around. A LOT. Once in a while someone ran, but it was the divertive equivalent of playing Whack-A-Mole at one mole per minute. Even the cheerleader-dancer people looked bored, and I saw one wander out of formation to chat with some dude in the stands.
Which is not to say the game didn't have its highlights. Our mascot, a person attired in a giant blue jay suit that looked as though it was made by a PTA mom in the eighties, ran into a wall, dislodging his bird head somewhat, tottered back, and walked into the wall again. His chiropractor must LOVE him.
Also we were sitting in the middle of a grim dispute between a group of rabid drunken teenage Blue Jays fans and a group of rabid drunken teenage Oakland A's fans. The outfielders HATED these guys. Some poor sod named Korsay will probably never ever play in Toronto again after the crap our drunks screamed at him; he began noticeably playing more infield after a couple of innings. He kept looking up at our section, a painful look of total harassment on his face, and you just know he was wishing he'd gone into investment banking like his guidance counselor told him to.
I mostly occupied myself with Ryan and a giant pretzel the size of home plate. And daydreamed of running onto the field and tackling the short stop, just for fun. MAN, we need to get hockey back.