Baseball 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.