Adios, Jupiter

“May day! May day! They’re coming!” Linnea-Irish’s eyes lit up in alarm when she saw the minor leaguers headed our way to the practice fields, even though that’s why we-were there at nine o’clock in the morning in the first place. Typical Snicketts girl response.

The usher who had tri-cycled over to unlock the gate that morning chatted for a few minutes with us about life until he moved on to another older group of fans who were all interested in how he got his job working the back fields with celebrity baseball players.

“You know how I got this job? Somebody died.”

By this point in the morning, my day was already made. As we were walking down to the gate, Waino drove past us, turned into the VIP parking lot, then walked to the stadium about fifteen yards from us on the way to his first start of the spring.

“I’ll tell you what,” another elderly usher told us as he walked by, “the nicest guy in the world. The nicest, most down-to-earth guy.”

I’ve never heard anything less than that said about Adam Wainwright.

But Linnea’s day was made about an hour later during batting practice.

“Collette! Collette! That guy threw his batting gloves to me! I saw him spit and throw his trash on the floor of the dugout, so I glared at him. Then he yelled something to me, tossed me his gloves, and I caught them!”

They were a prize indeed. Mark Reynolds’ red and gummy from the pine tar batting gloves. A beautiful conquest. Linnea tried them on for size. He has small hands.

So the girls left me to guard the gloves in the sweltering heat while they ran off for a giant plastic red batting helmet bowl of nachos that were so impressive, one guy stopped to snap a photo.

Despite the intense baking sun, we got a win out of it, even if my favorite went 0-for-3.

One last drop by the beach – rose and blue. I could stand in the surf for some time, I’ve discovered.

Howley’s – grilled cheese and apple juice. I’m five.

Until next time, you big old beautiful Jupiter, Florida.