63 : 4 : 371 : 3 : 20
With heat indexes reaching 100 that week already, it didn’t seem like a great evening to hit up the game. On paper. But sizzling temps don’t deter St. Louis from pouring out for an inter-league match-up between the Cards and Astros. Not even when we’re eight and a half back from Chicago.
A little of Carrie-Bri’s ratatouille right out of the oven before hitting the road. Meanwhile, with a few minutes to kill, Francis took Puck for a quick spin in Oxbear’s old black Toyota Tacoma. He’d spent a year or more piecing the thing back into working order, engine included, and was now ready to re-sell.
At 5:30, Oxbear picked up the boys on his way back from work. Another Guys’ Night ready for the books.
“But Dad!” Puck protested. “I want to go to the game!”
(Purely for the pretzels and ice cream, I can assure you.)
“Well,” Oxbear said, wiggling his eyebrows, “if you come back with me, I can make it worth your while.”
Puck’s eyes lit up; he knew what that meant. “We get to eat out for dinner?”
He immediately packed up for the road.
This time, Rose and I took the lead car downtown while Mom, Francis, and two friends from church followed in Dad’s old Civic to our classic six-dollar parking garage two blocks from the stadium.
After Rose and I found our seats in left field, about twenty minutes removed from the shade, the row in front of us filed in to sit for the long haul. They commenced to discuss hair and facial hair throughout the entire game. Everything from “man buns” and how they preferred curly man buns, to former Cardinal/current Astro Colby Rasmus’ neck beard and Jesus hair.
In the second inning, Rose took off for a Bavarian pretzel. She returned with a somewhat wilted, yet still fat, specimen.
“Well… they’re good when someone knows how to make them right,” she said. “It was for a charity event or something though, so kids were making them. Eh. A Bavarian pretzel is never too bad to eat.”
Rose’s favorite pitcher – and definitely one of mine – was on the mound that night. Even if you couldn’t see him, you knew it was Jaime Garcia simply by the mariachi walk-up music played over the PA system as he came to the plate… and struck out.
“Well,” Rose grinned as he returned to the dugout, “he might not have done anything, but he still looks good walking away.”
Ladies and gentlemen – my baseball companion of choice for the evening.