Indians Game

indians.jpgBaseball is near the pin­na­cle of bore­dom but I’ve gone to two games in five days and not had a ter­ri­ble time.

Saturday I went to the mat­inée game against the Royals which was a blowoutish win for the Indians. The weath­er was nice and I though I did not have mon­ey to buy ball­park cui­sine, the tick­et was free and the com­pa­ny good. The top of my head got mild­ly roast­ed be­cause my short hair did not pro­vide much cov­er­age. I had an aisle seat in left field which let me stretch out my gimp leg once it start­ed to hurt [which nev­er re­al­ly hap­pened, but I stretched my leg out any­way]. A bunch of late 20s ear­ly 30s frat guys were in the row in front of us, play­ing some sort of bet­ting game that had ex­treme­ly in­tri­cate rules based on bat­ters and num­bers of pitch­es per in­ning and stuff. Below them sat some dirty old man who kept hug­ging the woman to our far right who had an ‘I’m 30, Hug Me’ shirt on her tor­so.

To our left and a lit­tle be­low us was a pret­ty girl and her al­most as pret­ty girl friend, who were at the game man­less [which is a rather strange thing in my book, all of the cute girls I had seen apart from those two [and there are quite a few at Indians games ap­par­ent­ly] were with dudes]. After the old dude made friends with the frat­ties [even to the point of bum­ming beer off of them] he went over and con­vinced the girls to come sit with him. So all the drunk­en frat guys hugged all of those girls [be­cause they’d been hug­ging every girl ever since they saw the 30th birth­day woman] and ceased pay­ing at­ten­tion to the game in or­der to all si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly hit on the cuter of the two [who in­ci­den­tal­ly was around my age and kept look­ing over all of their shoul­ders at me, i swear]. The old man sat be­tween the girls, a wedge ef­fec­tive­ly pre­vent­ing them from talk­ing to each oth­er in­stead of all the guys while si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly al­low­ing the dirty old man to put his arms around them both.

Last evening, in­stead of writ­ing a po­em like I was sup­posed to, I went to an­oth­er game against the Detroit Tigers and we tail­gat­ed a bit be­fore. The Indians won again, an­oth­er home run was hit in­to our stands, our sec­tion got free hot dogs, there were still cute girls in abun­dance [all with dudes this time] and I sat ex­act­ly next to the guy who beats the drum. He was quite nice, but I can’t hear so well out of my right ear now.


I for­got to men­tion, there were born-again street preach­ers spread­ing the word near us. I took their lit­tle pam­phlet and glanced through it. A lot of peo­ple [some in my group] were a bit af­front­ed at be­ing preached to. They even went up to the folks preach­ing and voiced their dis­ap­proval. Which I’m al­so fine with. I think I feel a lit­tle strange though, be­cause both seem to be speak­ing past the peo­ple they are ad­dress­ing. I think street evan­ge­lism serves to build per­son­al faith bet­ter than it is ef­fec­tive in mak­ing folks born again. I don’t see the point of non born-agains mak­ing fun of them af­ter­ward though. Its just a form of op­pres­sion.

I sort of won­der what those born-again in my fam­i­ly feel in this re­gard. Especially my un­cle Collier. We nev­er re­al­ly talked about any­thing along these lines in Canada, but I was think­ing along them any­way.

4 thoughts on “Indians Game

  1. That drum-beat­ing guy has been do­ing that for some­thing like 20 – 25 years. His name is, I think, John Adams.

  2. Last year at an Indians game I ac­ci­den­tal­ly spilled a tiny drop of so­da on the back of the man sit­ting in front of me. He was old­er, and was sit­ting with a woman his age. He felt me make the spill and turned around, first to yell at me (he looked pissed at first) and then when he re­al­ized I was fe­male — to tell me that I bet­ter get that stain out “or else” (fol­lowed by co­pi­ous amounts of wink­ing and nod­ding). It was creepy, and he end­ed up tak­ing off his shirt and leav­ing it off the en­tire time. The woman he was there with kept giv­ing me ug­ly looks.

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